For hours, Serin had been sitting alone in his room, perched at the edge of the bed, feeling a strange, hair-raising chill run through his body. The warm afternoon breeze of summer had grown cooler by evening, drifting in from outside—having passed through the purple sky above, or perhaps the bustling town below—before reaching the heights of the old yet dignified castle and slipping in through the window of his chamber, ruffling the curtains as it did.
The wind carried an earthy scent, lukewarm as it brushed against his skin. Outside, seagulls flew unabashedly across the vast, beautiful canvas of the sky, swarming together as though singing hymns to Lord Penthos of the Sea.
The earthy wind, the birds chirping and singing merrily, and the faint, almost indistinct hubbub from the port—traders unloading cargo and selling their wares in the market, seafarers preparing their ships, the lingering smell of herbs—all of it settled the chamber into an otherworldly calm.
It was only now, with his body no longer aching and his head no longer feeling as though it might explode at any moment, that Serin could truly notice his surroundings.
It was something a person like him—someone who now most prominently carried the memories of modern Earth—had never experienced before.
After sitting there for hours, he had recovered most of his memories from Earth, albeit tangled with fragments belonging to the original Serin as well. He was no longer confused about his identity. He was Serin Hainar, bearing the soul of a modern man from Earth—a Chess Grandmaster and a candidate for the World Champion title.
Serin laughed softly in resignation.
"What a pointless life… Why? Why was I pulled into this world? What am I supposed to do here?" he thought in despair.
Tears flowed freely as he recalled his life on Earth—the sacrifices he had made, the relentless effort, his parents, his friends. It all felt meaningless now.
He could not bring himself to enjoy the serenity around him. His mind was muddled, his thoughts slowly sinking into a quiet depression.
For the past several hours, he had replayed every word Count Hainar had told him about the real Serin—the boy whose body he now occupied after collapsing on Earth and awakening in a completely different world.
"Is it possible that this is just a nightmare?" Serin wondered briefly, then laughed at himself. "Who am I kidding?" he mocked inwardly, recalling the priest from earlier.
"This world… is not normal. I have to find a way back somehow. There has to be a way," he muttered. "There's no point denying it anymore. This is the reality I'm in now."
Serin raised his head. The dim light of the setting sun reflected off a large, clouded mirror in the room, shining directly into his eyes.
He squinted and shielded them instinctively. In doing so, he caught sight of his reflection.
A scrawny body stared back at him, with a sunken, pale face and long, jet-black hair that carried a silky sheen. The features looked almost ghostly, yet there was a strange, subtle charm to them.
Studying his reflection, Serin fell into contemplation.
"What kind of person was the original owner of this body? Is he still in here somewhere?" he wondered.
Everything the Count had told him surged back into his mind.
The room seemed to grow quieter. The distant sounds from the port faded until they felt far away, muffled, as though separated from him by a thin veil.
"Fourteen years ago…"
The Count's voice surfaced in his memory—calm, measured, and heavy with a weight that had made Serin instinctively straighten his back.
He remembered sitting on the bed, fingers clenched tightly into the sheets, listening intently.
"House Hainar was on the verge of destruction. The old nobility were targeting us," the Count had said, his voice heavy. "Fourteen years ago, my father's hair turned white overnight as he struggled to find a way out of certain doom."
His voice cracked slightly. Beside him, the Countess had smiled bitterly, grasping her husband's hand in silent support.
After a brief pause, the Count continued.
"Everything seemed lost. That was when the Emperor extended us a lifeline. In exchange, my father adopted a young woman—a commoner girl by the name of Lysa."
A jolt ran through Serin's mind. A vague, fog-shrouded memory of a gentle, loving woman surfaced.
"Lysa… Is that…?" he had asked uncertainly.
Count Hainar nodded. "Yes. Your mother."
The Countess, silent until then, finally spoke. "She was a commoner by birth. Little is known about her origins, but she was the most beautiful woman I have ever seen," she said, her tone heavy as she finished.
Strange… shouldn't that be a good thing? Why does it feel so ominous? Serin had thought.
"It's said that…" The Countess paused, her brows knitting together.
She did not try to hide her discomfort, and Serin had noticed it clearly as she chose her words. "The Emperor first noticed your mother during one of the western campaigns against the rebels."
Her unease deepened, a swirl of conflicting emotions flickering across her face as she continued in a quieter, more restrained voice. "His Majesty was quite taken by her from the very first glance, they say."
Serin narrowed his eyes, a familiar headache threatening to return. He didn't know what to make of the Countess's reaction—and he didn't want to. It felt less like hearing his own story and more like listening to the tragic tale of a stranger.
"Later, when she arrived at the capital in an imperial carriage under the protection of the Royal Guard—holding a newborn infant in swaddling clothes—rumors spread quickly through the alleys and taverns of Lonestone Street," the Countess said, then fell silent.
Count Hainar immediately took over. "House Hainar adopted your mother and took you in at the Emperor's request. It caused quite a stir at the time when His Majesty personally visited a declining house such as ours. He even held you in his arms."
"Yes," the Countess added softly, looking at Serin as if to comfort him. "Whatever may have happened before, your mother was happy then. Truly happy."
Serin's fingers felt numb. Everything he had heard was overwhelming, far beyond anything he had faced in his past life. He was just an awkward chess player—he had no idea how to process such tangled complexities.
After a long silence, he asked timidly, already harboring certain guesses.
"Then… where is she now? And what happened five years ago?"
The Count and Countess exchanged a glance, communicating silently. In the end, it was Count Hainar who spoke.
"We could not hide it from you, even if we wished. It is no secret," he sighed.
"The reason House Hainar left the capital five years ago was an assassination. Lysa—my poor sister—did not survive. You were grievously injured. Your life was saved, but you fell unconscious… for five whole years."
In that instant, the pieces fell into place. Many questions were answered, yet even more arose—questions Serin deliberately chose not to pursue. He had no interest in this new world, nor in this new life.
The room descended into a deathly silence as everyone retreated into their own thoughts.
Finally, Serin spoke softly. "Thank you, my Lord, for telling me all of this. I'm tired…"
Count Hainar smiled bitterly. "Of course. Know this—your mother… I loved her as my own sister. You may call me uncle. We are glad you have finally recovered. If you need anything, simply ask. Rest well. You have endured much."
As the candles abruptly went out, Serin snapped out of his reverie. The sun had long since set, and his reflection had vanished from the mirror as darkness claimed the room.
Serin did not care.
A knock sounded at the door, making him scowl irritably. He had never felt so helpless, so easily agitated—not even after losing important chess tournaments with humiliating scores.
He wanted to be left alone.
But the knocking continued.
With a deep breath, he rose and opened the door. Two maids entered—one young, the other elderly from earlier.
"Goodness, it's so dark in here!" the younger one gasped. "Forgive us, my Lord!" she exclaimed in panic.
They quickly lit the lamps and replaced the candles, the scented smell of wax filling the room.
Soon after, more servants arrived, tidying the chamber with astonishing speed. Some carried plates laden with snacks and fruit. Serin watched it all in silence, his expression blank and distant.
The elderly woman seemed to want to speak, but hesitated, sensing his exhaustion. In time, the room looked cleaner, brighter—almost renewed.
But Serin did not care.
He felt only bored. And lost.
Lying back on the bed, he closed his eyes. In his mind, a chessboard formed, and he began playing from both sides, striving to find the best moves.
For now, this was his only source of comfort in his new life.