The first thing Leonhardt noticed was the ceiling.
It was white—too clean, too smooth, broken only by a faint hairline crack running diagonally from one corner. He stared at it longer than necessary, not because it was interesting, but because it was stable. Real. Unmoving.
He exhaled.
The breath did not fog the air. There was no hospital smell. No sterile hum of machines. Just the faint scent of polished wood and old fabric, heavy with the quiet wealth of a noble household that had never needed to justify its existence.
So this wasn't a dream.
Leonhardt did not sit up immediately. He kept his gaze fixed on the ceiling, counting the seconds by the slow, unfamiliar rhythm of his heartbeat. Younger. Stronger. A body that had not yet learned fatigue.
He lifted one hand into view.
Pale skin. Long fingers. No scars.
Not his.
"Right."
His voice came out steady, which surprised him. He had expected panic—some involuntary surge of emotion—but instead there was only a dull clarity, like rereading a book whose ending he already hated.
Leonhardt Virellion.
A name that barely existed.
In the novel, it appeared once. Maybe twice, if one counted the appendix. A minor noble's son. No talent worth mentioning. No dialogue. No inner thoughts. He existed only to die—collateral damage during an academy power struggle meant to elevate more important characters.
He turned his head slightly.
The room was modest by aristocratic standards. A wooden desk near the window. A wardrobe with simple carvings. No extravagant ornaments. No personal effects that suggested strong opinions or ambitions. The kind of room given to someone expected to live quietly and leave quietly.
Fitting.
Leonhardt pushed himself upright and sat on the edge of the bed. The floor was cold beneath his feet. He welcomed the sensation. It anchored him.
"How many hours?" he murmured.
He already knew the answer.
According to the original timeline, Leonhardt Virellion died in the late afternoon, crushed during a confrontation between noble factions at the Imperial Academy's outer courtyard. Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong importance.
He glanced toward the window.
Morning light filtered through thin curtains. Pale gold. Calm. Deceptively ordinary.
Several hours, then.
Not much time for a man who was never supposed to need any.
He stood and approached the mirror mounted beside the wardrobe.
The face that looked back at him was unfamiliar but unremarkable. Ash-brown hair, neatly kept. Gray eyes that lacked the sharpness of heroes or the intensity of villains. A face that blended easily into crowds—pleasant enough to forget moments later.
No wonder the story hadn't bothered to remember him.
Leonhardt held the mirror's gaze, searching for something—panic, disbelief, denial.
Nothing came.
Instead, there was a quiet, unsettling realization settling into place.
The world felt indifferent.
Not hostile. Not oppressive. Simply uncaring.
He existed here now, fully aware, carrying knowledge that did not belong to him. And yet the room did not tremble. No warning rang out. No invisible hand reached down to correct the mistake.
The story continued breathing, unchanged.
"That's interesting," he said softly.
In most stories, awareness was power. Knowledge bent fate. Reincarnation came with guarantees—systems, blessings, destinies rewritten in bold strokes.
Leonhardt had none of that.
No voice whispered instructions. No translucent screens appeared before his eyes. No sudden surge of strength or insight filled his veins.
Just memory.
And a countdown.
He turned away from the mirror and began dressing, movements slow and deliberate. Each button fastened felt like a small act of defiance—not against fate, but against the assumption that his end was already decided.
As he adjusted the cuffs of his shirt, a thought surfaced, uninvited and unwelcome.
If the world truly did not care whether he lived or died
Then survival would not come from changing everything.
It would come from changing nothing—at least, not visibly.
Leonhardt paused, fingers resting against the fabric.
In the novel, his death mattered only because it was convenient. A minor tragedy used to justify greater conflicts. Remove him, and the story flowed smoothly.
He straightened.
"Then I'll remain convenient," he said, tone even. "Just alive."
Outside the room, faint footsteps echoed down the corridor. Servants beginning their routines. Life moving forward, unaware that a man who was meant to vanish before sunset had already decided otherwise.
Leonhardt reached for the door.
The handle was cool beneath his palm.
For a brief moment—just a fraction of a second—he hesitated.
Not out of fear.
But because this was the last moment of his life that still belonged to the original story.
Then he opened the door and stepped into the corridor, carrying with him a name the world had already forgotten.
The corridor accepted him without resistance.
Leonhardt stepped out, and the door closed behind him with a soft, well-oiled click. The sound barely traveled. Thick carpets swallowed it whole, the kind chosen not for comfort but for discretion. Even noise here was trained to behave.
Morning had settled into the Virellion estate like a practiced habit.
Sunlight slipped through tall windows spaced evenly along the hallway, illuminating framed portraits—ancestors rendered in dignified poses, all stern gazes and stiff collars. Men who had governed quietly, married strategically, and died at appropriate times. Women whose expressions suggested endurance rather than joy.
None of them looked back at him.
Leonhardt walked at an unhurried pace, matching the estate's rhythm. Too fast would invite attention. Too slow would invite questions. He let his steps fall into the narrow margin where no one bothered to care.
A maid turned the corner ahead, arms full of folded linens. She paused when she noticed him.
"Oh—young master," she said, dipping her head. Not too deep. Not too familiar.
"Good morning," Leonhardt replied.
His voice did not echo. The corridor absorbed it, just as it absorbed everything else.
The maid straightened. Her eyes flicked to his face, then away, already moving past him. There was no curiosity there. No concern. She did not ask how he slept, or where he was headed, or whether he needed anything before leaving for the academy.
She simply passed him, the hem of her uniform whispering against the carpet.
"Breakfast will be served in the east dining room," she added, almost as an afterthought, already halfway down the hall.
Leonhardt inclined his head. "Understood."
She did not look back.
He continued on.
The estate was large enough to be impressive, small enough to be forgettable. A minor noble's residence—maintained, respectable, and entirely absent of ambition. The walls were clean, but not freshly painted. The furnishings were sturdy, but unfashionable. Nothing here invited notice from the capital. Nothing demanded inspection.
It was a place designed to exist between glances.
Leonhardt passed a window overlooking the inner garden. A gardener was trimming hedges with careful precision, stopping every so often to adjust the angle. The man wiped his brow, straightened, and glanced toward the house.
Their eyes met.
The gardener froze for half a heartbeat, then nodded.
"Morning, young master."
"Morning."
The exchange concluded there. The gardener returned to his work, shears clicking softly, the sound regular and reassuring. A task repeated every day, regardless of who lived or died inside the estate.
Leonhardt paused by the window, watching for a moment longer than necessary.
In the novel, this garden was mentioned once. Not for its beauty, but because blood stained the hedges during a later purge—years from now, long after Leonhardt was meant to be dead. The estate would be seized, its residents scattered or executed, its name absorbed into someone else's holdings.
But not today.
Today, it was just a garden.
He resumed walking.
The east dining room doors were already open. Inside, a long table waited, mostly empty. A few servants moved quietly along the walls, placing dishes, adjusting settings. At the far end sat Lord Virellion—his father, by blood and by obligation—reading a folded document while sipping tea.
The man did not look up as Leonhardt entered.
Leonhardt took his usual seat. Not too close. Not too far. The place assigned years ago, never questioned since.
Plates were set before him. Bread, Fruit, A cup of tea poured without asking how he liked it. The routine was efficient, impersonal.
Lord Virellion finally spoke, eyes still on the page.
"You'll be leaving for the academy shortly."
"Yes, Father."
"Carriage will depart at the third bell."
"Yes."
A pause followed. The faint rustle of paper.
"You've packed."
"Yes."
That was the extent of it.
No advice. No warnings. No expectations voiced aloud. Leonhardt ate in silence, chewing slowly, aware of how normal everything felt. How precisely aligned it was with the memory he carried.
In the novel, this breakfast was not described. It was unnecessary detail. He left the estate. He died later. That was all.
Lord Virellion folded the document and set it aside. He sipped his tea.
"Don't cause trouble," he said, tone neutral.
Leonhardt met his father's gaze for the first time.
"I won't."
It was not a promise. It was a statement of intent.
Lord Virellion nodded once, satisfied, and returned to his tea.
The conversation was over.
Leonhardt finished eating, stood, and bowed with the appropriate degree of respect. He exited the dining room without anyone watching him go.
Back in the corridor, the estate felt unchanged. The same quiet. The same order.
It struck him, then—not sharply, but with a slow, creeping certainty—that if he were to vanish now, nothing here would falter. Meals would be served. Hedges trimmed. Documents read. His seat at the table would remain empty for a time, then be removed.
No ripple. No pause.
Leonhardt reached the front hall. Sunlight spilled through the tall doors, bright enough to cast long shadows across the marble floor. Servants moved around him, preparing for departures, their paths intersecting without collision.
He stood there, momentarily still.
The estate did not acknowledge the weight of the hours ahead. It did not know that by evening, according to the story, he would no longer exist.
The doors opened as a footman approached.
"The carriage will be ready shortly, young master."
Leonhardt nodded. "I'll wait."
He stepped aside, positioning himself near a column, half-shadowed, watching the flow of the household continue around him—unchanged, unbothered, intact.
Outside, a bell rang faintly in the distance.
The third bell would come soon.
And with it, the story would begin moving again.
Leonhardt remained where he was, unseen and unremarked, as the estate prepared to send him toward a fate that had already been written.