As he lay on the floor, blood pooling beneath him, each breath a violent struggle that rattled his chest, his life flashed not in highlights but in crushing disappointments.
Did he squander every chance? Did he let every dream slip through his fingers? These accusations hammered against his skull, demanding answers he couldn't bear to face.
No, he failed. Completely. He had family who loved the hollow shell he presented them. He had friends who never knew the coward behind his smiles. He had enough money to survive but never enough courage to truly live. His ambitions were phantoms, beautiful, terrifying, and utterly beyond his grasp because he was too damn weak to reach for them.
Angel's last breath rasped out in a whisper of copper-tasting blood as darkness tightened its grip around him.
Maybe, if given another chance I could strive for something more, much more…
Thunder cracked like a whip and shattered the void. He bolted upright in the four-poster bed, fingers pressing into temples throbbing with pain. Rain spattered against leaded glass windows; each flash of lightning carved the chamber's vaulted arches into sharp relief.
He swung his feet over the edge and stood, head still swimming, stepping toward a tall mirror set against a stone pillar. A stranger stared back, inky hair swept from a chiselled brow, ice-blue eyes glinting under high cheekbones, a lean frame standing nearly full height. A breath caught in his throat. This face, these memories, were not his own.
Angel Dacre. The name felt both foreign and familiar—a second son of a count in a land where mana stirred in every living thing. His sixteenth birthday loomed, along with entrance to the Royal Academy, where noble heirs and a handful of gifted commoners trained to be the best.
A translucent status panel shimmered into view before his eyes, unwelcomed.
This wasn't part of his memories.
— Status —
Name: Angel Dacre
Age: 15
Rank: E+
Strength: E+
Agility: E+
Stamina: E
Intelligence: E
Mana: E
Charm: A+
— Profession —
Swordsmanship: Lv.2
Mage: Lv.1
— Techniques —
Draconic Sword Art:
A powerful and versatile sword technique created by Nathaniel Dacre.
Ice Domain:
A technique that allows the user to create an ice-based domain. The more mana invested, the larger the domain and the more constructs or effects can be formed within it.
He exhaled, fingertips brushing the glass as if to steady the floating data. A warm sensation slid through his skull down to his limbs, his first sting of mana. He spread his arms, relishing the tingle.
A few knocks echoed down the corridor. "Enter."
A maid in starched livery[1] stepped in. "Master, it's time for your morning routine."
Angel inclined his head. "Thank you." The door clicked shut. He smoothed the front of his clothes, manners already aligning themselves as his memories.
I should stick to his routine from now on and maybe slowly change them to match my own. No point in drawing any unnecessary attention just yet.
He traded sleep-wrinkles for training leathers, then padded to a marble basin. Cold water snapped across his face; the strange wooden stick he bit released a cool mint that slid along his teeth. In the mirror he grinned—too wide, he thought, marveling at his strong jawline and calculating eyes.
Outside, the rain still fell in sheets. He looked up at the sky, welcoming the drizzle as he jogged from the keep into the castle's outer yard. Guards in full-set armor lowered their spears in salute, servants bowed as he passed.
His boots slapped the wet flagstones through four measured laps. By the time he returned to the barracks yard, his shirt clung to skin and heart pounded in chest. He dropped into push-ups, counting each one, then rolled into crunches until his core burned. Sword in hand, he swept through lunge, parry, riposte—three pillars of the Dacre blade tradition and any self-respecting sword family.
Drenched and panting, he slipped back to his suite. The maid drew a steaming bath scented with lavender. He sank beneath the surface, dark curls floating, and gazed at the wavering reflection overhead. Daydreaming he recalled the dreams and aspirations of the original Angel, he'd pictured a future where he could shape his own destiny.
A simplistic dream for the grandeur of this world, but who am I to judge him? At least he worked towards his goals as straightforward as they may seem.
Shivering, the maid that was waiting for him, started dressing him in fine silk, a soft blue doublet trimmed with silver braid, hose of charcoal wool.
It's a bit awkward being dressed by someone else, but i guess that's the way here. When in Rome do as Romans do.
"Master, the food will be served shortly you can go to the dining hall. The Count, Countess, and your sister have already gathered there."
"Yes I'll go now. I'm famished."
The corridor lights burned in suspended mana crystals, casting shadows on the stone walls. Guards stationed beneath arched windows nodded as he passed.
At the great oaken doors to the dining hall the sentries snapped to attention. Angel breathed deep, smoothed a lock of hair from his forehead, then stepped inside. Candlelight danced across polished tables and painted banners as he offered a confident half-smile. Ahead lay family, and his silent promise that he would not waste this time.
Let's see what's in store for me…
[1] noble setting maid outfit