Chapter 1: Identity
"Fire! Fiery fire! The flames burned everything."
Human figures ran wildly, struggling helplessly in the flames, their screams echoing in the night.
In the end, everything turned to ashes.
Karl sat up suddenly in bed, breathing rapidly. His forehead was covered in sweat, and fear lingered in his eyes. The terrifying scene from a few days ago had returned in his dreams.
He took a moment to calm down, wiping the cold sweat from his brow. With a rustling sound, he changed into formal clothes and stood before the dressing mirror.
His black hair, naturally curly, fell to his shoulders. His brown eyes, still clouded with confusion from sleep, stared back at him. His left cheek bore a severe burn scar, disfiguring his once-handsome face.
Today, he had important business to attend to, so he donned expensive formal attire. The long coat, reminiscent of an ancient suit, had the smoothness of silk and the texture of fur, highlighting his muscular frame.
Karl Bergmann was born in the Swick region of the Gondor Kingdom and currently resided in the southern part of Signor City. He served as a city inspector. His grandfather had followed Marquis Lawrence into battle and earned the title of baron for his bravery—a title passed down to Karl's father.
A fire just days ago had taken his father's life and left Karl with burns and emotional trauma.
Then... his soul was replaced by a traveler from another world.
That's right. Karl was now a time traveler, and he felt both unfamiliar and strangely familiar with this world, including himself.
"It's over. It's over," Karl muttered to himself in the mirror. He calmed himself, then walked to the door, turned the handle, and stepped out of the bedroom.
In the living room, a classical European, medieval-style layout greeted him. A cabinet with intricate carvings stood to the left. Its bronze drawer handles matched the door handles, likely from the same manufacturer. The room had wooden floors, hardwood tables and chairs, extinguished kerosene lamps, and a scent of vanilla and lemon in the air.
A pile of linen in the corner served an unknown purpose, but it had become home to flour and black bread.
"Your Excellency, Baron Karl," Jenny called from the kitchen as she brought bread and milk, offering a smile as she slowly curtsied. "You're awake, please have breakfast."
Jenny was a teenage girl, innocent and cheerful, with skin as smooth as milk and a clear, pleasant voice. But she didn't realize how inappropriate her words were.
"Jenny!" came the voice of Mary, the landlady, from behind, filled with anger. "Don't joke like that."
"Yes, I'm sorry," Jenny said, her smile fading. "Karl, I apologize."
"It's fine," Karl shook his head. "You all eat. I'm going to church."
He wasn't a baron yet. There were formalities to go through to inherit his father's title, and inheriting the title only meant his father had passed, which was no cause for celebration.
"To the church."
"Threepence."
"Here."
"Thank you, sir, please take a seat."
Sitting in the carriage, Karl's mind began to wander.
Threepence was enough for an ordinary person to have a decent lunch, and the church wasn't far. It seemed being a coachman wasn't a bad job. Karl, with his working-class instincts from his previous life and his unfamiliarity with this world, habitually evaluated everything around him.
His eyes moved from the coachman to the horse—a pony named Duma, gentle and steady, loved by noblewomen. Of course, it was also expensive. The carriage itself, well-decorated, must have cost a fortune too. Becoming a coachman required a significant investment. Maybe it wasn't such a good job after all.
"Well... I'll be a baron soon, and my income as a city inspector is already decent. No need to fuss like I did in my previous life."
Even without the baron title, Karl thought, his father's status was enough to ensure a comfortable life.
'But this place is inconvenient, lacking the modern comforts and the beginnings of technological advancement. It feels more like medieval Europe,' he mused.
The power of the church, though, was more secular. Even inheriting a title required church approval, which Karl found foolish. But then again, maybe not so foolish.
Strange memories flickered through Karl's mind. This world was far from simple.
The carriage stopped a little distance from the church out of respect for the Lord of the Dawn. The church was vast and imposing, and the square was filled with pious believers praying. The pointed tower was adorned with a symbol of wheat, representing part of the authority of the Lord of Dawn—Abundance.
"Lord of the Dawn..." Karl muttered as he bent his body slightly, weaving through the people, and headed to Father Vic's office through the side door.
"Father," he said respectfully as he entered. "I'm here to handle the inheritance of my father's baron title."
"Karl Bergmann?" Father Vic asked.
"Yes, it's me."
Father Vic, with his deep-set features and solemn expression, looked at Karl. His black uniform robe exuded an invisible authority. He spoke slowly.
"Your father died fighting against the fire thieves, protecting civilians. He was brave and just."
"Yes," Karl said quietly, lowering his head. "I'm proud of him."
"But..." Father Vic's tone shifted. "After consulting with the other priests, we've decided that your father's title cannot be inherited."
"What?" Karl's eyes widened in shock, but he quickly composed himself. "Father, I don't question your decision, but my father's bravery was recognized by the city lord."
"Bravery and justice alone are not enough. Nobility also requires piety," Father Vic said, clasping his hands. "And unfortunately, we did not observe that in your father."
"No!" Karl objected. "Before every meal, my father would lead us in prayer. During Holy Mass, he abstained from meat and alcohol. His devotion is beyond question."
Whether that was true or not didn't matter; it had to be said. The title of baron was crucial. Without it, Karl would be a mere commoner, and even his job as a city inspector might be at risk.
"Father, is there a misunderstanding?"
"There is no misunderstanding," Father Vic said, shaking his head. "Tell me, Karl, what month is it?"
"Nine… The Month of Plenty," Karl replied.
"Exactly," Father Vic sighed. "In the Month of Plenty, even the serfs offer black bread to the church. Yet, your father lived in Signor for years and never donated anything."
Karl was silent. Though they hadn't given anything to the church, they had always paid their tithes on time. But he knew this wouldn't sway Father Vic.
Karl's eyes lingered on the fine bracelet Father Vic wore—a luxurious item for a priest. Lowering his head, he fell into deep thought.