In a semi-dark room, a boy lay in a pool of his own blood.
The room itself was extravagant. Finely crafted wood shaped every surface, from the bed frame to the bookshelves to the desk near the window, each piece carved with the kind of detail that screamed wealth without a single word.
Yet in the center of all that grandeur, a boy in a white and azure blue uniform lay crumpled on the floor, blood soaking into the carpet beneath him. Part of the window was broken. The room was empty.
Then the boy stirred.
His fingers twitched first. Then his eyes snapped open and he sprang upright, chest heaving, gaze wild as it swept the room.
"I'm alive?"
He stared at his palms. Bloody, both of them, but he could see them. He could move them. He searched his body quickly and found no wounds.
"I really am alive! How come?!"
He glanced around, heart still hammering.
'Did the rescue team sweep in to extract me before I died?'
But this didn't look like any hospital. Not even close.
Wilfred was sure he had died. His eyes had seen an eternal darkness that was neither cold nor warm, a void where he couldn't tell if a single moment had passed or an eternity. All he knew was that one moment he was gone, and the next he was here.
In this strange, glamorous room.
He looked down at his body. It didn't feel right. Shorter, less sturdy than the one he'd lived in. The proportions were wrong, the weight was wrong, and when he shifted his balance, everything answered half a beat too late.
'…in the body of this strange young man. Who is he?'
The moment the question formed, pain split through his skull. Wilfred staggered sideways, nearly collapsed, his foot splashing through the puddle of blood on the floor. He grabbed the edge of the bed and held on until the world stopped tilting.
When it passed, the memories of the body's owner came with it.
Wilfred straightened and looked down at hands that were not his own, though no less refined.
"It seems those things that happen in novels have happened to me." He frowned, pressing a knuckle against his chin. "But there was no truck. How did this happen?"
His eyes moved across the room with something closer to interest than fear.
He did die. He was certain of that now, because the boy's memories confirmed it. He also knew that this body belonged to Wilfred Von Argentine, the last son of the Argentine Dukedom, who was said to possess an Monarch-level summoning potential.
And the Awakening Day was today. That was why Wilfred Von Argentine had been dressed in this supposedly impeccable uniform.
'A Monarch-level potential killed on the day of his awakening.' His jaw tightened. 'Someone didn't want you to awaken, son.'
Wilfred exhaled and sat on the edge of the king-sized bed.
He'd been an avid fan of webnovels and reincarnation tropes once, back before his life became more about Ants than fiction. Before things got serious.
'No use mulling over the how. I'll survive for now.'
He tapped his chest, right over the heart that wasn't originally his.
'I need to survive.'
Whoever had killed Wilfred Von Argentine would not be happy to find him breathing. That much was obvious. And the one thing screaming through his head louder than anything else, louder even than Ants, was simple.
'I need to survive at all cost.'
And in order to survive, he needed to attend the Awakening Ceremony.
A knock sounded against his door.
Wilfred shot to his feet, then froze. The carpet beneath him was drenched in blood. His clothes were soaked through. How was he supposed to explain this?
He pulled off his trousers, staggering and nearly tripping over the fabric, yanked off his shirt and rolled the bloodied rug under the bed. Then he crossed to the wardrobe, and caught a glimpse of his reflection.
'Oh…'
He paused despite himself. Wilfred Von Argentine had rough, bone-white hair that stopped just above his eyes, framing his face like a pale halo. His skin was sickly white, his frame slight, almost frail.
Not quite what one would expect from the son of a duke.
A sharp pain flared along his side. He pulled open the inner shirt and found bruises laced across the boy's ribs, layered like they'd been building for a long time.
The knocking came again, harder this time.
Wilfred grabbed the first set of clothes his hands touched and threw them on. He crossed to the door and opened it.
The moment he did, three boys rushed in. One seized his collar, the other two moved in practiced unison and pinned his arms before he could so much as flinch. His back hit the floor.
The one gripping his collar leaned over him. Wavy jet-black hair, sharp features that bordered on sculpted, and a nasty grin that said this wasn't the first time he'd done this.
"You think you can disobey me because it's the Awakening Day?" He tightened his fist and glared into Wilfred's grey eyes. "I don't give a damn if you summon a dragon, you're my slave! Repeat it. You're my what?!"
Wilfred looked at him. Then at the other two.
'Three of them. Coordinated entry, assigned roles. The two on the arms are support — one's committed, the other's just following. And this one needs me to say it out loud.'
He almost smiled.
"You know," Wilfred said, "I've seen this exact hierarchy before. One leader, two followers, the whole structure held together by fear. It's not very stable. The moment you show weakness, one of them replaces you."
His eyes moved briefly to the lackey on his left, then back to Harvett.
"Usually the quiet one."
Harvett didn't move. A frown creased his brow, and something shifted behind his eyes. The confidence didn't break, but it wobbled. Before he could process it enough to swing, a voice boomed down the hallway.
"What are you students doing there?! Shouldn't you be at the Arena?! At the count of three, I don't want to see anyone still standing around! Move! Scram!"
Harvett shoved Wilfred back and took off down the hall, his lackeys scrambling after him.
Wilfred adjusted his clothes, brushed off his collar where Harvett's fist had crumpled it, and stepped out. He couldn't afford to stand around either. After all, he was a student of this Summoning Academy
He walked down the corridor at his own pace, composed where the others had scrambled, carefully tracing the inherited memories to find his way to the Summoning Hall. In a few minutes, he would stand in front of the entire academy and awaken as a summoner.
He had no idea what he would summon. But for the first time since waking up in a dead boy's body, a familiar itch stirred at the back of his mind, the same restless pull he'd felt every time he stepped into unexplored territory.
Not fear…
Curiosity.