Leon gasped, his body jerking upright as if yanked by invisible strings.
His hand flew to his forehead, fingers digging into his skin with desperate force. He scratched frantically, searching for the hole. The shattered bone. The blood. The exit wound that should have blown out the back of his skull.
Nothing.
Smooth skin. No scar. No hole.
He sat frozen for a second, his breath coming in ragged heaves that echoed in the quiet room. He remembered the gun. The cold muzzle pressed against his forehead. The flash. The absolute darkness.
"Didn't I die?"
The image of Sofia falling flashed in his mind. The betrayal. The cold look in her eyes before she turned her back on him to collect her fee.
A dark, bitter laugh escaped his throat.
"Serves her right. She died too."
He stared at the ceiling, his chest heaving. She had tried to sell him out. She had thought she was playing a game, but she was just a pawn. They shot her in the back the moment her usefulness ended.
"But fuck," he whispered, the taste of ash in his mouth. "I was too naive. I let a pretty face blind me to the teeth underneath."
"Damn it all sigh.
He had paid for that naivety with a bullet to the brain. He wouldn't make that mistake again. Trust was a currency he was done spending.
Then, the headache hit.
It wasn't the phantom pain of a gunshot. It was a spike of white heat driving into his skull from the inside, splitting his consciousness open.
Leon groaned, gripping his temples. The room around him came into focus.
It wasn't a hospital.
The room was massive too huge to be a ward room, It was a space designed for royalty, with high ceilings painted with gold leaf and walls covered in rich, crimson silk. The floor was polished white marble, reflecting the soft, steady glow of a crystal chandelier hanging overhead.
There was no smell of dust or decay. Only the scent of fresh jasmine and expensive wax.
He looked down at his hands. They were slender. Pale.
He shifted his feet against the cold marble. They were soft. The thick calluses from years of cramming them into boots and drilling on muddy pitches were gone.
He stumbled toward a tall mirror standing in an ornate frame near the wardrobe.
The reflection stopped him cold.
The face staring back was devastating. A jawline that could cut glass. But it was the eyes that caught him off guard. They were gold. Molten and sharp, contrasting with the icy blue gaze that defined the rest of the Whitmore line.
His hair was white. Pure, untouched snow. The mark of the bloodline.
He was beautiful. Not just handsome. This was a level of aesthetic perfection that would make the models of his old world weep with envy.
Then, the memories crashed in.
They weren't his. They felt like a recorded message left behind by a ghost.
*Leon Whitmore*
Third son of Duke Malrik Whitmore.
He gripped the edges of the mirror as the life of the stranger played out. He saw the woman who gave this body its face. Lady Kassandra. The Duke's first wife. She had died giving birth to him.
The memories shifted to his father. Duke Malrik. A man of iron and stoicism. But underneath the steel, there was a festering wound. The Duke had lost his beloved to bring a sickly, weak son into the world.
Every time the Duke looked at Leon, he didn't see a child. He saw the instrument of his wife's death. The boy with the strange gold eyes.
That was why the original Leon was here. Alone.
He wasn't in the main manor. He was in a separate courtyard, banished from the center of the family's power. Out of sight. A painful reminder best kept at a distance. Even if his cage was gilded with gold, it was still a cage.
The memories moved to the others. The shadows standing over his crib.
The First Brother. A name spoken with reverence in the capital. A War Mage General. He was already a legend on the battlefield, carving through enemies with arcane fire.
The Second Brother. Following the same bloody path. Currently a top student at the War Mage Academy, destined for greatness.
Then there were the four sisters. The memories of them were vague. Silent shadows in the hallways. Watching. Their stories were whispers the original Leon hadn't been important enough to hear.
And he was the mistake.
His eyes drifted to the nightstand. A crystal vial sat there, half empty. A residue of whitish powder clung to the glass.
*Suppressants*
The memories turned dark. The original Leon had been born frail. To manage the crippling pain of his unstable mana channels, the healers had brewed a mixture. Crushed ogre balls. Toxic magical leaves. A foul, whitish sludge that numbed the body but destroyed the constitution.
He had taken a dose the night before.
His heart had simply stopped. The suppressant had done its job too well, silencing the pain and the life along with it.
"Overdose," Leon muttered.
The realization settled deep in his gut. The original owner of this body, a boy named Leon just like him, had passed away in his sleep. The overdose had killed him instantly, leaving the vessel empty and cold.
It was Leon Ardent who had been pulled into the void to fill the gap. The footballer. The betrayed. The survivor.
Leon looked back at the mirror. The pretty face of a noble son stared back, but the eyes were old. Cold.
He remembered the rules of this new world.
**Yggdrasil.**
The World System.
At eighteen, the coming of age, every person connected to it. They awakened their power. They received their class.
He was seventeen.
But the memories clarified the date. His birthday was in two weeks.
The Awakening was imminent.
The former host had feared the Awakening. He feared becoming a disgrace to the Whitmore name.
Leon straightened his tunic. He braced himself for the crushing weakness described in the memories. The boy had been frail, a brittle twig ready to snap.
Leon flexed his hand. There was a tremor. A lingering ghost of the sickness.
But it wasn't the prison the memories painted it to be. He felt weak, yes, but not helpless. It was as if the damage had been partially undone while he slept. The crushing weight of the sickness was lighter. His breathing was clear.
He didn't question the small mercy. He just accepted it.
Well what do you expect him to do throw a tantrum over what, nah he is happy to be alive again.
He had the mind of a man who had clawed his way out of poverty only to be stabbed in the back. He had two weeks to prepare for a system that judged worth by power.
A knock sounded at the heavy oak door. It creaked open slowly.
A maid peered inside. Her eyes were wide, scanning the bed, likely expecting to find a corpse or a dying boy gasping for air.
She froze when she saw him standing by the mirror.
"Young Master?" Her voice trembled. "You... you are awake?"
Leon turned. He saw the shock in her posture. He wasn't supposed to be standing.
"I am," he said.
"Thank the gods," she whispered, bowing low. "We feared the fever had taken you."
She straightened up, regaining her composure, and moved quickly to the side door leading to the bathing chamber.
"I will prepare the water immediately. The Duke expects you at the dining hall."
Leon listened to the sound of water rushing into a porcelain tub through pipes powered by mana. No basins. No buckets.
He was the Third Son. The runt. The killer of the Duke's beloved.
But he was done being a victim.
He walked to the window. He looked out over the sprawling estate.
Two lives. Two deaths.
He clenched his fist.
"I won't be naive a second time," he whispered to the glass. "I will not be denied my live again"
If the world wanted to take what was his, he would show it a middle finger and tell it to "fuck off"