The office lights were the only ones still on.
Everything else in the building had gone dark hours ago.
Rows of empty desks stretched into silence, monitors asleep, chairs pushed in neatly like obedient soldiers. Only one cubicle still glowed blue.
And inside it sat a man who hadn't stood up in nine hours.
The clock read 2:47 AM.
His screen was filled with numbers that refused to end.
"…Almost done," he muttered, voice dry.
He'd been saying that for three hours.
His fingers moved on autopilot, typing reports he wouldn't remember tomorrow. His shoulders burned. His neck felt like rusted metal. Empty coffee cups surrounded him like trophies of bad decisions.
His phone buzzed.
A message from his boss:
Need revisions by morning. Don't mess this up.
No "please." No "thanks."
He stared at the message for a long time.
Then typed back:
Understood.
Of course he did.
He always did.
The spreadsheet blurred. He rubbed his eyes. The numbers swam anyway. His chest felt tight — not pain exactly, just pressure. Like someone had quietly placed a brick inside his ribs.
He ignored it.
Deadlines didn't care about discomfort.
He leaned forward again.
Typed.
Typed.
Typed—
His fingers stopped.
The screen tilted sideways.
No. Not sideways.
The world was tilting.
His breath hitched. A sharp pulse stabbed through his chest, sudden and violent. His vision shrank into a tunnel. Sound vanished. Even the hum of the building disappeared.
He tried to stand.
His legs didn't move.
"…Hey," he whispered to no one.
The cursor blinked calmly on the screen.
Waiting.
His heart slammed once.
Twice.
Then misfired.
Cold spread through his arms.
His last thought wasn't dramatic. It wasn't about regrets or dreams or love.
It was small.
Petty.
Unfair.
I didn't even get to rest.
The office lights faded.
The screen went black.
And so did he.
He woke choking.
Air crashed into his lungs like he'd been drowning.
He shot upright, hands clawing at sheets he didn't recognize. The room was unfamiliar — wooden ceiling, open window, the scent of steel and oil in the air.
His heart raced.
He looked down.
His hands were smaller.
Younger.
Not his.
"…What?"
The word came out higher, thinner.
Panic surged. He stumbled out of bed and nearly collapsed. His body felt light — too light — like gravity had changed its mind. He caught himself on a table and stared at a polished metal surface hanging on the wall.
A reflection stared back.
A boy.
Black hair. Sharp eyes. A face no older than fourteen.
He stumbled backward.
"No. No, no—"
Pain detonated inside his skull.
Memories that weren't his tore through him.
A training yard.
A sword slipping from weak fingers.
Laughter.
Whispers.
Useless.
A name surfaced through the chaos.
Cael Rynhart.
Youngest son of the Rynhart sword family.
The shame of it hit like a physical blow.
Every sibling a genius.
Every cousin a prodigy.
Every ancestor a legend.
And Cael…
The failure.
The boy whose body refused the blade.
The memories poured faster — years of humiliation, silent dinners, disappointed looks, servants whispering when they thought he couldn't hear.
He dropped to his knees, clutching his head.
Two lives collided inside one skull.
The overworked man.
The broken heir.
When the storm finally settled, he sat there trembling.
Alive.
Reborn.
"…I died," he whispered.
And somehow… he'd been given another chance.
A strange calm followed the realization.
No office.
No deadlines.
No boss.
Just a second life inside a boy everyone had already given up on.
He laughed weakly.
"Of all people…"
Then a voice echoed in his mind.
Not heard.
Not imagined.
Installed.
[Sword Sovereign Talent EX has been installed.]
He froze.
Text unfolded in the air before his eyes.
[Daily Sign-In System Activated][You may sign in once per day at unique locations.][Rewards scale with danger, rarity, and historical significance.]
His pulse spiked.
"…A system?"
He almost laughed again.
Dying from overwork was insane.
Waking up in another world was worse.
But waking up with a cheat ability?
That felt deliberate.
The voice returned:
[Synchronizing body with Sword Sovereign Talent…]
Pain swallowed the room.
His muscles seized. His bones burned like molten metal had been poured inside them. He bit down on a scream and failed. The agony wasn't injury — it was reconstruction.
Something ancient carved itself into his nerves.
Instincts bloomed.
Balance.
Timing.
The language of steel.
Every movement a sword could make etched itself into his body like memory older than birth.
Then—
Silence.
He lay gasping on the floor.
Slowly, shakily, he stood.
A wooden training sword rested near the wall.
Cael stared at it.
The old memories told him what would happen.
He'd drop it.
He always dropped it.
He reached anyway.
His fingers closed around the hilt.
The sword rose effortlessly.
No shaking.
No rejection.
It felt… right.
He swung.
The air split cleanly.
Perfect form.
His eyes widened.
"…That wasn't practice," he whispered.
"That was instinct."
The system pulsed again:
[Beginner Sign-In Location Detected: Rynhart Estate — Training Quarters][Would you like to sign in?]
His grip tightened.
A slow grin spread across his face.
"Yes."
[Sign-in complete.][Reward: Foundational Sword Body — Passive Enhancement][Effect: Accelerated mastery of all sword techniques]
The sword felt lighter.
Sharper.
Like the world had just tilted in his favor.
Footsteps echoed outside the door.
Someone was coming.
Cael looked at the blade in his hand… and for the first time in either life, excitement burned in his chest.
The failure of the Rynhart family stood in the center of the room.
Holding a sword like he'd been born with it.
And when the door opened—
Everything was about to change.