Revan slept until he couldn't.
A weight pressed against his throat, firm and unyielding, as if unseen hands sought to strangle him in his slumber. At first, he thought it was the sickness that had plagued him, a dry cough lodged in his throat, refusing to break free.
He tried to inhale—nothing. He tried to exhale—nothing. Panic surged through his veins as he fought to cough, to make even the faintest sound, yet no relief came. The pressure grew unbearable, and then, beneath the haze of sleep, he felt it—something real, something physical constricting his neck. His eyes snapped open.
His vision blurred before sharpening on the horror of his predicament. His feet barely touched the chair's crest rail, his toes struggling for purchase, a purple cloth wound tight around his throat, tethering him to the exposed beam above.
Instinct took hold.
His hands clawed at the noose, fingers forcing their way between the cloth and his skin, a feeble barrier against strangulation. His left leg flailed, seeking purchase on anything sturdy, while his right foot remained perched on its unsteady tiptoes. A cold sweat broke across his body as his searching foot finally found something—a narrow surface just behind him. With his legs now spread in an awkward, precarious stance, he balanced himself just enough to reach for the knot. His fingers trembled as he fought to loosen it, every breath a struggle against the crushing embrace of the cloth.
The knot gave. Revan wrenched his head free and gasped, lungs burning as air rushed back into them. "Holy shit! I survived—"
The chair beneath him gave way, tipping backward with a violent lurch.
"Fuck—!" His exclamation turned into a strangled cry as he crashed down, landing squarely on his crotch. His right heel struck the floor at an awkward angle while his left leg stretched painfully behind him, hooked to the thin surface. A sharp, searing agony shot through his body, and he howled, the sound pitiful and raw, like a wounded dog left to die.
"Damn it! Damn it! Damn it!" He writhed, hands clutching his crotch as he groaned through clenched teeth. "Fuck...my balls...Ugh...If this is a dream, why does it feel so real…? Ugh…" He panted, wincing, and forced himself to his feet, stumbling as he reached for the fallen chair. His fingers curled around its frame, lifting it back onto its legs, and he leaned against it for a moment, chest heaving. Then, still limping, still cursing under his breath, he turned toward the bed, his body sinking onto it with another quiet groan of pain.
The room around him was unfamiliar—far too grand, too intricately designed for any place he had ever lived.
The high walls, covered in dark wooden paneling, bore ornate carvings of twisting vines and hunting scenes, their craftsmanship too fine to be anything but the work of a master artisan. Heavy drapes of deep burgundy framed a tall, narrow window beside the bed, the fabric thick enough to block out the morning sun. A writing desk stood beside it, carved from the same dark wood, its surface polished to a gleaming sheen. A quill and ink bottle rested neatly atop it, along with a parchment of aged, yellowed paper. Across the room, a heavy oak wardrobe loomed, its iron hinges fashioned with delicate engravings, its doors slightly ajar, revealing neatly arranged garments within.
The floor was covered by an exquisite rug, woven in deep blues and golds, the patterns unfamiliar yet undeniably expensive. The bed itself, large enough for a grown man, was dressed in velvet and furs, the sheets softer than anything he had ever slept on.
Everything about this place exuded nobility—wealth, status, luxury. But none of it was his.
Revan's breath came quicker, his heart hammering against his ribs. His fingers dug into the fabric of the sheets as a single thought forced its way into his mind, cold and unrelenting. 'What if this is real…?'
He pinched himself, hard. Pain flared through his skin, sharp and undeniable. His throat tightened. His neck felt raw, tender from the noose. 'No… no, no, no. This isn't real. It can't be.'
His gaze flicked toward the window. He pushed himself off the bed, dragging his aching crotch forward, and peered outside. Below, people bustled through the cobble street, their voices carrying in the crisp morning air. Their clothing—long tunics, cloaks fastened with bronze brooches, dresses laced tight at the waist—was unmistakably medieval.
The men wore hose and boots, some with swords strapped to their hips. A blacksmith pounded away at a forge far away, the ringing of metal on metal echoing through the street. He could see the market just outside of the territory, women bartered at the market stalls, exchanging goods for coins that glittered in the sunlight. A horse-drawn cart rolled past, its driver yelling at the bystanders as he flicked the reins.
Revan's breath hitched. 'No. No, no, no. No way.' His hands gripped the window sill, fingers digging into the wood. His pulse roared in his ears.
Finally, he found his voice. "How the fuck did I die?" He forced the words out, barely above a whisper. He swallowed, his throat still aching. "I drank some mango juice. I went to bed. That's all. No goddamn robbers climbing up to a fifth-floor student dorm window just to kill me in my sleep." His voice cracked as his mind raced. "What the fuck happened?"
Then he heard it—clearly then—his own voice. Or rather, what should have been his voice. It was different. Not the slightly nasal, college-student tone he had known his whole life. This voice was deeper, richer, smoother.
His gut twisted.
Slowly, as if afraid of what he might see, he turned toward the mirror standing in the corner of the room.
The reflection staring back at him was not his own.
The boy—no, the young man—who gazed from the glass was taller than he had ever been, his frame lean yet undeniably strong, muscles shifting beneath the velvet tunic that hung from his shoulders. His face was sharp, angular, free of any baby fat. A thin scar traced from the right side of his chin, stopping just before his lips. His dark, tousled hair framed a face that was neither handsome nor plain, but something in between—rough, hardened, a face that had seen things. His eyes, deep brown, studied him with equal parts confusion and unease.
Revan took a slow step forward, then another. He raised a hand, and the reflection mimicked him. His fingers brushed against his chin, tracing the scar. The skin beneath his touch was smooth, real.
This isn't my body.
His stomach churned. His mind reeled.
What the fuck is happening to me?
Then, immediately, the nausea struck.
A crushing wave of memories surged into Revan's mind, each one vivid, unrelenting, as if a thousand lives had been crammed into his skull all at once. He staggered, gripping the edge of the wooden desk to steady himself, his breath coming in ragged, uneven gulps. It was not merely recollection—it was an invasion, a forceful rewriting of his very identity, and he had no power to resist.
The young man in the mirror—the face he now wore—was not Revan Parker.
His name was Elphonse Flint Ritch. His parents, in the rare moments they deigned to acknowledge him, had called him El Ritch. He was the third son of a dwindling noble house, a no-named, insignificant family clinging to the frayed edges of wealth in the South of the Empire, Evandria. Four siblings—three sisters—two are smaller than El Ritch, and an elder brother—had been born before him, each struggling under the crushing weight of their lineage's expectations. The family's fortunes had long since waned, their estate barely holding itself together, their coffers drained. The burden of salvaging their name had driven their parents to desperation, and in that desperation, they had decided to sent three of their children to the Empire's capital.
The aptitude trials would determine their fate—knight, conjurer, bureaucrat, or something else befitting nobility at least. A future dictated not by choice but by obligation. Yet El Ritch had never been suited for the sword, nor had he possessed the mind for spellcraft, a conjurer. He was a writer, a thinker, a boy who found solace in ink and parchment rather than battlefields and courtly intrigue. But what noble house needed a poet? What use was a dreamer to a family drowning in debt?
He had known the answer before they had even spoken it. The weight of expectation had settled on his shoulders like a millstone, and he had done the only thing he believed was left to him.
He had taken the purple cloth. He had climbed the chair. He had wrapped the cloth noose-like around his neck.
And he had stepped off.
Revan exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as the echoes of that choice—of El Ritch's despair—finally settled. The memories were his now, as much a part of him as his own past, but they did nothing to answer the real question.
"It doesn't fucking explain why I died after drinking a mango juice and going to bed!" His voice rose in frustration, reverberating off the wooden walls, but the rage was fleeting. His shoulders sagged as something else surfaced in his mind—an exam.
His exam.
It was supposed to be that day, he would've failed.
His lips parted slightly, then pressed into a thin line. His head tilted back against the chair, and for the first time, the weight of it all sank in. 'Maybe… dying wasn't so bad.'
Revan Parker had been a scholarship student, a Grade A intellect, a boy who could absorb knowledge like a sponge yet had no real ambition beyond survival. His parents had perished in a storm—a hurricane, a Category Five behemoth that had swallowed their home and left him with nothing but a quiet farm in the countryside. There had been no grand ambitions left after that, no dreams beyond the next assignment, the next class, the next meaningless step toward a future he had never truly desired. He had simply existed, moving forward because stopping meant facing the hollow space where purpose should have been.
But now, for the first time, after years of reading webnovels and fantasizing about impossible worlds, he had been thrust into one. A noble's life. A short one, perhaps, but lavish, if played well. If nothing else, the food would be better. And work? He had always been hardworking. What difference would it make if he had to work a little harder here, surrounded by wealth and privilege? He could adjust.
His life was set.
Or so he thought.
Another wave of memories struck, colder than the last. They were not the distant echoes of another boy's past but something immediate, something urgent.
Today.
Today was the day a knight would arrive to take El Ritch's exams. Not to some warm, idyllic future filled with books and leisure, but to the very path he had tried to escape. Today was the beginning of El Ritch's training—either to wield a sword as a knight or to wield magic as a conjurer.
Revan dragged his hands down his face.
"Fuuuuuuckkkk..."