The golden clock, designed as a miniature Big Ben, showed exactly seven o'clock in the morning. The doors beneath the dial swung open, and a little toy man dressed in a black suit rode out. He held a bell in his right hand. The toy man's arm began to move up and down, and the bell rang softly.
On a huge double bed with a scarlet canopy lay a little boy in white pajamas. The pillowcases and sheets were gold in color. The duvet covering the massive blanket was gold and smooth on the inside, and scarlet and velvety on the outside.
The sound of the bell made the boy stir in his sleep. He struggled to sit up slightly and immediately collapsed back onto the pillow. His blond hair was tousled and messy. The boy buried his head beneath the pillows and pulled them over himself.
The toy man rode back into the clock, and another one—exactly like him but holding a horn—rode out. The bravura blast of the horn rang out loudly.
The huge double oak doors, coated in brown lacquer, swung open abruptly. A butler appeared in the doorway—a man of about forty with perfectly combed chestnut hair. He wore a well-tailored black suit, a white shirt, and a black tie. His posture was so immaculate that it seemed as though he had swallowed a ruler.
Electric lamps shaped like golden candlesticks with candles hung on the walls near the entrance. On the right stood a rack filled with balls of every kind, and on the left was a massive chest of drawers overflowing with toys of every imaginable color and design. In a niche beside the rack stood a complete suit of medieval knight's armor.
The enormous room was finished with brown wooden wall panels rising two meters high. Above them, the walls were painted a sandy hue over textured plaster.
The butler passed the toys and the armor and walked past the door leading to the bathroom.
Farther in, the room widened. On the right stood a massive fireplace, above which hung a full-length portrait of a blond, blue-eyed seven-year-old boy depicted as a medieval prince in a luxurious green doublet—the very same boy now lying in bed. A golden chair stood beside the fireplace. The floor was covered in burgundy tiles, with an ornate golden pattern at their center.
The butler stopped at the boy's bedside and said,
"Wake up! It's time to get to work, Mr. Richie. Don't be lazy—you have a busy day ahead of you!"
He crossed the room and pulled open the burgundy curtains. Bright sunlight flooded the spacious bedroom.
"Oh, what a wonderful morning!" the butler said in an exaggeratedly cheerful tone. "Get up, sir. Don't keep your coach waiting."
The boy pulled his head out from beneath the pillows, yawned widely, and suddenly opened his eyes. They widened so much it seemed they might pop from their sockets. He stared in shock, as though seeing both the butler and his surroundings for the very first time.
"Who are you? Where am I?" the child exclaimed.
The butler chuckled knowingly and smiled.
"Mr. Richie, stop these tricks," he said. "Get up, wash your face, and come downstairs."
The child sat upright abruptly, looking even more stunned, and began examining his hands as if he had never seen them before.
"I'm a child?!" he cried in amazement. "My God—I'm a CHILD!"
He slipped his right hand into his pajama pants, then let out a relieved breath.
"Phew! At least I'm a boy!"
"Mr. Richie, this is not amusing," the butler said, a hint of irritation in his voice. "Pretending to have amnesia is pointless. It will not excuse you from your lessons."
"Uh…" the boy stammered. "Are you my father?"
"No, sir." The butler shook his head. "I am John, your valet. Get up."
"Okay. I'm getting up."
The boy climbed out of bed and began examining the room with the genuine curiosity of a pioneer discovering a new world. His face lit up with delight.
"My God… I'm rich!" he exclaimed.
"Yes, sir," the butler confirmed calmly. "But as your father often says, 'Even if you were born with a long silver spoon in your mouth, you should not eat from it for the rest of your life.'"
The butler slid one of the wall panels aside, revealing an enormous wardrobe filled with an astonishing variety of clothing and shoes. John selected a pair of black shorts, white sneakers, a T-shirt, and socks, then handed them to the boy.
"Put these on, sir. Do not forget to visit the bathroom. Your coach is waiting for you in the gym."
The boy looked around with wide eyes, searching for the bathroom. The butler assumed the child was continuing his act, sighed quietly, and opened the bathroom door himself.
Richie stepped inside and froze for a moment.
He had never seen a bathroom this luxurious—even though the mind inhabiting the boy's body belonged to an adult who had seen plenty in life. The bathroom was larger than the kitchen of a standard apartment. The floor was laid with white marble. Marble sinks lined one wall, alongside a shower cabin, a jacuzzi, and a toilet with a bidet beside it.
I've in! he thought. Have I become one of those classic transmigrators from the books?! Or is this paradise? After all, I remember perfectly the truck rushing straight toward me at terrifying speed. No one survives something like that. Yet I'm alive—even though this isn't my body. I can even speak English fluently now, despite struggling with it in school and barely knowing it at all… I wonder where the original owner of this body went, and how I ended up here.
John's stern gaze prevented the boy from dwelling on his thoughts for too long, and Richie had no choice but to wash up and get changed.
The hallway struck him to the core. It was so wide that you could have driven a car through it if you wanted to. The house itself was more like a palace—obscenely vast, with towering ceilings and lavish furnishings. Paintings lined the walls, and marble statues and suits of steel armor stood in recessed niches.
Descending the marble staircase, Richie and John reached the gym, which was equipped with an impressive variety of exercise machines and sports equipment. The space was divided into two sections: on the left were weights and machines, and on the right stretched a spacious open area for aerobics, complete with a mirrored wall.
Waiting inside was a stunning athletic blonde woman dressed in a fitted aerobics outfit: black leggings, a white one-piece leotard, and matching sneakers.
She smiled broadly and addressed the boy politely.
"Good morning, Mr. Grosvenor. Would you mind if I conduct today's session instead of Arnold? My name is Claudi."
The boy's eyes were anything but childish as they swept over the trainer's figure. He nearly drooled at the sight of her breasts, snugly wrapped in thin cloth—easily a firm B cup.
"Good morning, Claudi," Richie managed to reply. "Of course. I'd be happy to train."
He still had not fully come to terms with the reality of his new life, but he chose not to show it. He didn't understand how, after dying, he had awakened not in heaven or hell, but in the body of an eight-year-old boy. Still, if fate had given him the chance to start over—especially in a wealthy family—it would be foolish not to take advantage of it.
The workout turned out to be standard aerobics. The butler removed his jacket and exercised alongside his young master. Claudi, however, made a serious mistake—whether due to her youth and lack of experience, or maybe out of sly intent—by demonstrating most of the exercises with her back to them. As a result, John and Richie spent much of the session staring at Claudi's toned butt.
The valet and the boy turned to each other, knowing smiles spreading across their faces, before the boy and the man's gazes returned to the lovely curves.
Richie still didn't fully understand what was happening, but he definitely liked it. Everything felt unreal, like a personal reward for surviving something unimaginable. If every transmigrator was supposed to receive a grand piano hidden in the bushes, then his just happened to be an endless supply of money—and he wasn't about to complain.
After the workout, John escorted his protégé back to his room.
"Mr. Richie, you should change for breakfast and school."
Richie's face twisted as though he had bitten into a whole lemon.
"School? Again?!" he nearly wailed. "No-o-o~! No, no, no! I don't want to go to school again!"
"Sir, whether you want to or not, you must," the butler replied dryly as he entered the dressing room. He returned with a suit hanging neatly on a hanger. "First, a shower. Then breakfast. Then school," he said matter-of-factly. "In the meantime, I'll select a shirt and tie. What color would you prefer today, sir? Red polka dots or classic black?"
"Definitely not Donald Duck," Richie answered with a smirk. "Um… John, tell me—how much longer do I have to attend school?"
The valet began bending his fingers, murmuring softly as he counted.
"One—junior school. Five years. Then another couple of years at Eton, unless you pass your exams externally, as you did for the first two grades. Alternatively, after junior school, you may attend Ellesmere College in Shropshire."
"Hm… That leaves you with approximately eight more years of schooling, sir. After that, college is an option. You could become the first Duke of Grosvenor with a higher education—another four or five years."
"Well, college might still be an option," the boy mused, rubbing his chin with his right hand. "That's where the young, juicy nymphs are—eager for adventures on their second ninety…"
"Oh, how quickly children grow up," the valet said, rolling his eyes toward the ceiling. "Master Richie, you are only eight years old, and already you're interested in girls. I am proud of you. But be careful—there will always be huntresses seeking a wealthy man."
"I hate school!" Richie muttered as he trudged off toward the bathroom.
Along the way, he reflected on the so-called problems of transmigrators. They usually faced thrilling adventures from which they always emerged unscathed. But for him, instead of adventures, it looked like he was destined to sit at a school desk for the second time.
After showering, Richie dressed in an expensive suit, clearly tailor-made and fitted perfectly to his small frame.
Children grew quickly, and it was difficult for him to imagine how often such clothes had to be replaced. He estimated that the black-and-gray three-piece suit alone cost an outrageous sum. With that kind of money, one could probably buy a used car in good condition somewhere in the developing world. And if the platinum cufflinks with black diamonds were sold, a brand-new car might not be out of reach.
The valet helped him comb his hair back and set it neatly with hairspray. The result was a sharply dressed, impeccably groomed smug little brat.