Lembang, West Java – Indonesia. Friday, 9:00 PM.
Torrential rain hammered against the floor-to-ceiling glass windows of Villa Cempaka. Outside, the thick fog typical of the Lembang mountains blanketed the pine forest, hiding the world from view. Inside, however, the atmosphere was warm and unmistakably luxurious.
The aroma of savory Nasi Liwet, salted fish, and the smokey scent of grilled Maranggi Satay filled the dining room, a space dominated by antique teak wood.
"Come on, Dad, blow out the candles! The cake is gonna melt!" exclaimed Rafidha (12), the youngest daughter, pointing impatiently at the massive chocolate tart in the center of the table.
Sanusi Sudrajat (55) laughed heartily. Even in his fifties, the founder of the Sudrajat Group looked imposing in his long-sleeved silk Batik shirt. He gazed around the long dining table. His wife, Rully (46), smiled gently, a cake knife in hand. All seven of their children were present tonight—a rare occurrence given their busy schedules.
"Patience, Neng," Sanusi said with a thick, soft Sundanese accent. "I want to pray first. It's rare for us to gather like this on the Night of One Suro."
"The Night of One Suro, Dad?" asked Rizki (22), adjusting his thick prescription glasses. He had just set down his work tablet. "No wonder the air feels... heavy. The cell service has been dead for a while now."
"So mystical, Dad," chirped Roihan (18), recording an Instastory. "But aesthetic. Carry on."
Sanusi closed his eyes, offering a silent prayer for his family's safety. Then, he blew out the candles shaped like the number '55'. Thunderous applause echoed through the spacious dining room.
"First slice goes to the First Lady," teased Rifki (32), the eldest, sitting at the head of the table with a sturdy posture built from routine gym sessions.
Rully accepted the plate with a shy smile. "Thank you, dear. I hope you stay healthy and keep watching over the kids."
"There is one more thing," Sanusi said suddenly. He pointed to a dimly lit corner of the room.
Standing there was an object Sanusi had won at an antique auction in Jakarta just this morning. A two-meter-tall Bronze Mirror. Its frame wasn't wood, but a black metal intricately carved into the shape of three intertwining wolves.
"Cool, right?" Sanusi asked proudly. "They say it's 14th-century, an Eastern European relic. I plan to put it in my study."
"It's creepy, Dad," muttered Rumaisha (15), shivering slightly. "The wolves' eyes... it's like they're watching us."
Suddenly, lightning struck.
BOOM!
It wasn't the sound of normal thunder. It sounded like a bomb blast, deafening and violent.
The crystal chandelier above the dining table flickered once. Twice.
Then, total darkness.
Blackness swallowed Villa Cempaka. Only the strobe-light flashes of lightning from outside provided any illumination.
"Rafa is scared!" screamed little Rafardhan (10).
"Calm down. Rifki, check the fuse box," ordered Lukman—Sanusi, his voice calm but firm.
"On it, Dad." Rifki moved to stand, but froze. "Dad... look at the mirror."
In the darkness, the bronze mirror did not reflect the shadowy room. Instead, the bronze surface was glowing. A reddish-purple light pulsated from within the mirror, like a heartbeat.
A low humming sound began to resonate. Vrrrmmm... It grew louder and louder, making their teeth ache and the glass windows rattle violently.
"Everyone, get back!" Rizki shouted, his logical brain instantly detecting a physical anomaly. "That's not a light! That's radiation or—"
Rizki's words were cut off as the villa's floor tilted. Not physically, but gravity itself seemed to be forcibly dragged toward the mirror. Porcelain plates slid off the table and shattered.
"Mom! Kids!" Sanusi no longer cared about his expensive mirror. His fatherly instincts took over. He jumped, spreading his sturdy arms wide. "Hold on! Form a circle! Don't let go!"
They grabbed each other's hands amidst the supernatural earthquake. Rifki grabbed Roihan's collar. Rully hugged Rafardhan and Rafidha. Rumaisha pulled Rizki's arm. Ridha grabbed Sanusi's hand.
"What the hell is this?!" screamed Ridha (26), her hair whipping around as if a hurricane was raging inside the closed room.
From within the mirror, a voice emerged. It wasn't Indonesian. It wasn't English. The voice was ancient, heavy, and sounded like a thousand swords being drawn from their sheaths simultaneously.
[The Lineage returns. Awakening initiated.]
The mirror exploded in silent light. There were no glass shards. Only an overpowering vacuum force.
Villa Cempaka vanished. The Lembang pine forest vanished.
Their modern world collapsed, replaced by a tunnel of time that smelled of cold iron and blood.
Iron Hearth Castle, Northreach Territory. Kingdom of Aethelgard – Year 844 of the Solar Era.
Cold.
That was the first thing they felt.
Not the cool breeze of the villa's AC, but a damp, bone-chilling cold mixed with the smell of wet moss, burning beeswax, and overly salted smoked meat.
Sanusi gasped. His eyes snapped open.
He was no longer standing and holding hands. He was sitting on a massive, hard mahogany chair with a bear-skin backrest that towered over his head.
His hands... these were not the smooth hands of a CEO accustomed to holding Montblanc pens. These hands were rough, scarred, and calloused. On his ring finger sat a large silver ring bearing the crest of a three-headed wolf.
His head felt like it was going to split open.
Pain. Excruciating pain.
Alien memories flooded his brain like a flash flood breaking a dam.
My name is Lucian Sudrath. Duke of Northreach. Former General of the Northern Expeditionary Force. My first wife died of the plague. I married Aurelia. I have debts. Oh God, so many debts...
"Urgh..."
Simultaneous groans echoed around the table.
Sanusi—no, Duke Lucian—lifted his face. Under the dim light of a rusted iron chandelier lit by only twelve gloomy candles, he saw his family.
They had changed.
Rully, his gentle wife, now wore a dark blue velvet dress that was faded yet regal. Her face was gaunter, sterner, but the eyes were still the Rully he knew. In her head, she now held the memories of Duchess Aurelia, a noblewoman seasoned by palace intrigue.
Rizki, his skinny, glasses-wearing son, now looked paler. The glasses were gone, but his gaze was sharp, sweeping the room with terrifying calculation speed. He wore a simple gray robe. Sir Rianor.
Rifki, the eldest, now looked like a giant. His shoulders were twice as broad, clad in hardened leather armor with a greatsword resting against his chair. His face bore a thin scar across his left cheek. Sir Riven.
And the others... Roihan (Roland), Ridha (Rhea), Rumaisha (Rumina), Rafidha (Raveena), Rafardhan (Raphael). They were all there, frozen in their seats, clutching their heads, struggling to merge two souls into one body.
"Dad...?" Rumaisha's voice—now Lady Rumina—trembled. She stared at her dress full of dirty lace. "Where are we? Why is my head full of images of people being beheaded?"
Lucian slammed his fist onto the thick wooden table. BAM! The sound jolted them back to reality, forcing them to focus.
"Calm down!" Lucian's voice came out deeper, a baritone filled with a military authority he never possessed back on Earth. "Breathe. Don't fight the memories. Accept them. Let them flow."
He didn't know why he said that. It was the original Lucian's instinct—the instinct of a veteran who knew how to handle shell shock.
Slowly, their breathing regulated.
Rianor straightened his back. He looked at his father. "Father. We moved. Isekai. Transmigration. Whatever the term is, we are in the bodies of House Sudrath. And based on the data in my head... our condition is critical."
"Critical how?" asked Roihan—now Sir Roland—reflexively adjusting the collar of his tunic which felt itchy. "Stocks crashed?"
"Worse," Rianor answered flatly. "We are bankrupt. The territory is starving. And Father's enemy, Duke Varkas..."
Before Rianor could finish his sentence, the double doors of the dining hall were thrown open roughly.
BANG!
The bone-chilling night wind blew in, carrying snowflakes from the dark corridor.
Three figures walked in without invitation.
At the front was a short, fat man with a greasy face, wearing a bright red silk robe that contrasted sharply with the castle's poverty. Behind him were two soldiers in full plate armor bearing the crest of the Iron Boar on their chests. Their hands rested on their sword hilts.
Lucian's memories instantly recognized the man.
Baron Gorm. The loan shark. Duke Varkas's lapdog.
Gorm walked with an arrogant stride, his boots clicking clack-clack-clack on the cold stone floor. He stopped right at the end of the table, directly facing Lucian. He did not bow.
He smiled, revealing yellow, sparse teeth.
"A very... humble dinner, Duke Sudrath," Gorm sneered, his eyes glancing at the dried meat on their plates with disgust. "Is rat meat in season up here in the North?"
Riven's blood boiled. His right hand moved to grip the hilt of his greatsword. But a sharp glare from Lucian stopped him.
Gorm chuckled, then tossed a leather parchment scroll onto the table, landing right in front of Rianor's plate. The scroll landed with an insulting slap.
"Duke Varkas sends his regards," Gorm said, his voice dripping with venom. "The sun has set, My Lord. The deadline for the war debt from ten years ago expires today."
He leaned forward, staring at Aurelia (Rully) with a gaze that made Lucian's stomach churn.
"Pay 50,000 Gold Coins right now," Gorm hissed. "Or hand over the deed to the Northern Iron Mine... and Lady Rhea must come with me to Duke Varkas's estate tonight as collateral."
Silence.
The atmosphere at the dining table turned suffocating.
Back on Earth, this would be the moment to call a lawyer or security.
But in Aethelgard, the law was written in steel and blood.
Rhea—a former national fencing athlete—slowly reached for her dining knife. Her eyes narrowed, locking onto Gorm's fat, exposed neck. In her mind, the human anatomy appeared clear as day, like a practice target.
However, it was Rianor who moved first.
Calmly, Rianor picked up the parchment scroll. His slender fingers broke the red wax seal. His eyes moved rapidly, scanning line after line of the ancient handwriting.
Rianor's genius brain worked twice as fast.
One side of his brain read the ancient Aethelgard language.
The other side—the brain of a Cum Laude Business graduate—analyzed the figures with modern mathematical logic.
The corner of Rianor's lips curled up slightly. A thin, cold smile.
"Why are you smiling, Book Rat?" snapped Gorm, offended.
Rianor closed the scroll slowly. He turned to Lucian.
"Father," he said in a tone that was formal yet relaxed. "This document is legally flawed. The interest calculation uses the compound method which is prohibited under Royal Decree Article 12, and the stamp expired two days ago."
Rianor turned his head toward Roland.
"Roland, it seems our guest needs a lesson in... negotiation etiquette."
Roland Sudrath stood up.
The charismatic aura of a "Student Senate Chairman" blended with the cunning of a noble diplomat. He smiled, a smile that was sweet but deadly.
"Sir Gorm," Roland greeted softly, walking around the table to approach the envoy who was starting to look confused. "You barged into our home without knocking, insulted our food, and just now you threatened to kidnap my sister?"
Roland stopped right next to Gorm. He patted the fat man's shoulder as if brushing off dust.
"Brother Riven," Roland called out quietly.
"Yes?" Riven stood up. His height reached 190 cm; his shadow completely swallowed Gorm's small frame.
"Close the door," Roland ordered coldly, his eyes never leaving Gorm's face which was beginning to pale. "Our guest doesn't seem to want to go home just yet."