"What a weird guy," someone would probably think if they watched Seojin walking back and forth for the past few minutes.
If not that, he would be staring out the window before sinking onto the edge of the bed to count imaginary stars on the ceiling. He was doing nothing, yet he was also doing everything!
By now, whatever was that inside the cup the maid had left for him had gone cold, still untouched.
All those memories that came, still nothing in his mind felt useful. The memories that had flooded in were mostly mundane snippets of a sick, spoiled young lord roaming a massive castle alone.
Still, they offered one thing: clarity.
He was in [Ascendance Castle], or rather, he had been living here since before he was one year old. Every Hart child was required to reside into castles like this until they turned seventeen. A place to cultivate talent before being introduced to the outside world.
Thing is, no one was here besides him and the maid who had served him earlier, if not including the occasional knights patrolling the castle grounds.
"So… there should be six other castles, right?" he murmured, staring out the window at the snowy expanse. "Damn… the wealth it takes to maintain all this."
The novel had skipped over these details, focusing only on one key character: the eldest child of [Hart]. Everyone else, including his body's original owner, was mostly background character and was written off the page.
Still, he had gained something useful.
He now understood why Seven Hart, this body he had transmigrated into, had the reputation of a scoundrel. The maid's cautious, almost fearful reaction made sense now.
Truth was, Seven Hart had hated her, or at least kept his distance.
The woman wasn't just a maid but also a magician, specifically a healer. By common sense, a healer is someone who could heal injuries, wounds, and illness with magic.
And she had promised Seven Hart that his terminal illness would be cured before the [Ascendance Ceremony], held on each Hart child's seventeenth birthday to judge their growth.
Winter had arrived, which meant it was Nocten, the final month of the year.
Also according to the novel, Seven Hart's birthday was three days before the month ends, the fifty-first day of Nocten. But just as snowflakes were just beginning to fall, winter was still young… meaning a few weeks still remains before his ceremony
He found a calendar in the room, and there were circles on the date ranging from the first up to the fourth day, meaning today was the fourth day. From the memories, Seven Hart was circling these dates at the moment he woke up.
And crucially, his illness had still not been healed, or maybe these circles were a countdown for that. That explained why the maid now seemed incompetent and untrustworthy in the eyes of Seven Hart—or at least, why he had thought so.
The maid was simply someone incapable and undeserving to serve someone with status as him.
"Damn it, what a dumb douchebag," Seojin muttered, slapping both his cheeks at the same time. "Terminal means incurable, you idiot. What were you even expecting?"
This character was not only weak and useless, but also dumb and clueless.
Within just a few minutes, Seojin had hurled every curse he knew at Seven Hart, even though it felt disturbingly similar to insulting himself.
"Shit," he frowned, raking a hand through his hair. "At least give me a few weeks to live or something. Is that way too much to ask?"
As much as he wanted to relax and wait for the ceremony, he knew he never had that kind of luxury. This world clearly had no intention of letting him enjoy his new life. He was going to be assassinated on the 7th of Nocten, that's in three days!
The classic transmigrated into another world, given a death flag, and now survives or dies trying. He knew that much. This novel was no different than those cliche ideas.
Still, the reason as to how he knew it was simply because his death was his seventh and last screen time. Whether it was Seven Hart's father hiring an outsider to quietly dispose of his youngest, terminally ill child before the ceremony or some internal political cleansing, it didn't matter.
Either way, the outcome was clear.
It was way better to erase him quietly than let rival families witness the disgrace of an irredeemable [Hart] child.
"How troublesome," Seojin groaned. "Oh, dear Goddess, whose beauty mortal eyes are supposedly unworthy to behold, please send me back to Earth at this instant!"
For someone who had never set foot inside a church in his entire life, he switched roles fast.
Fantasy worlds loved their Goddesses. Beautiful. Omniscient beings who welcomed lost souls from other worlds. If anyone had dragged him here, surely it was one of them. So, logically, if he showed enough faith… something was bound to happen.
However, there was no response.
Still, he jumped off the bed and dropped to his knees anyway, hands clasped dramatically like a cultist at peak devotion.
"Oh mighty Goddess," he pleaded. "Please take me back. I have a life on Earth that's way better than this mess. I haven't even dated anyone yet! Why did it have to be me? There are plenty of people dodging military service. Send them instead!"
He paused, looking like he had just made a grave mistake.
"Oh, wait. Isn't this better then? I mean I'm already 17. Only a year and I'll be enlisted in the military, and I don't want that shit!"
He closed his eyes again, praying, though this time he was praying that no Goddess would appear and send him back to Earth.
Minutes passed, no light came to illuminate him. Either there was no goddess watching over this world… or she was busy listening to music and ignoring him on purpose, too unbothered to listen to foul words of a mere mortal being.
"Argh, whatever," Seojin muttered as he stood, dusting himself off and walking toward the desk. "Goddess this, goddess that… forget it! I'm more of a science guy anyway."
He picked up the now cold cup of… whatever it was, and took a tentative sip. Green tea!
"Ugh, damn. That tastes nasty."
He almost spat it out. Almost.
"Anyway," he leaned against the window frame, watching snowflakes drift lazily down, "even if there was a way back, it'd probably be one of those 'save the world or whatever' deals. And where's my system, by the way?"
Naturally, these kinds of worlds came with a system to guide his growth. "So where the hell is mine?!" he complained, voice rising in frustration.
"Damn it," he sighed, placing back the empty cup on the saucer above the desk. Despite how bitter it tasted, he had managed to drink it all nonetheless. "What a hopeless situation."
The desk was cluttered with scribbled parchment papers and old, well-worn books. Nothing looked particularly useful. In fact, most of the scribbles were stickmen holding swords, numbered step-by-step to show swinging directions.
It even had a cool shade effect too, like someone had even shaded the paths of the sword for emphasis.
He squinted his eyes.
"Come to think of it… this family is famous for their swordsmanship. So why is there no memory of him ever holding even a wooden sword?"
Leaning closer towards the parchments, he read its content.
"It says these are guidelines for the Hart technique, so why is he only studying them at all? Oh, right. With this body, even if he swung a sword, he'd get stuck at step one."
He exhaled in frustration.
He should be worrying about surviving the assassination in three days, not analyzing doodles he could not perform. But somehow… it was just as confusing as everything else in this cursed new life of his.