I stood up and walked toward the closet. I pulled out a white shirt, black pants, and a sleek black coat with silver markings. I mean, I'm going to meet my father—I can't just show up looking like I rolled out of bed.
And just so you know, I dress myself. At least here, the maids don't "master" the baron's son. I could force them—but that would just make me a creep. I haven't sunk that low.
Alright then. Let's go.
I opened the door to my room. What greeted me was a corridor with more wood than stone—polished floors, oak paneling, and walls lined with paintings spaced at perfect intervals. Maids moved about, doing their duties, and greeted me with practiced curtsies as I passed.
Strangely enough, it didn't feel weird. It felt... natural. Probably because I still have Brad's original memories. Still, that sense of belonging was oddly comforting. I guess it's for the better.
I reached my father's office on the upper floor and knocked.
A deep voice responded, "Come in."
The room was modest. One wall was lined with a large bookshelf, and beside the window sat my father, a stack of papers in front of him. A middle-aged man with black hair and red eyes—like mine—but his aura was different. Sharper. Regal. Unyielding. Standing beside him was his trusted aide—an old man in a crisp suit, posture so rigid it looked like time itself hadn't dared bend him.
"Brad!"
Yeah. He calls me Brad. I don't know what's up with names in this world, but I'll roll with it.
"Yes, Father," I replied, keeping my tone serious.
"Do you know why I've called you here?"
Here we go. Act One begins—the inter-entrance competition. A tournament where baronies under the same count send their best. It's more than just a show of strength—it determines who qualifies for the Interstellar Academy's entrance exam.
But for me? This is where I get my ass handed to me by the main character.
"Because of the inter-entrance competition," I said.
He locked eyes with me. "You are my only son. One day, you will inherit my position. This is your chance to prove yourself—and show them the Dred Sword Style is not to be underestimated."
Here we go again.
My father is a peak master-level swordsman. Talented from a young age, but he never broke through to grandmaster rank. His rivals used that to their advantage—mocking not just him, but our entire sword style. Because we've never produced a grandmaster, they say the Dred Sword Style is flawed. Limited. Capped.
And now, it's his obsession to prove them wrong.
He never remarried after Brad's mother died—devoting himself entirely to training and raising a worthy heir. And since Brad showed promise early on, my father poured everything into him.
So, no family drama—but all the pressure in the world to redeem a legacy.
Though for Brad, it wasn't pressure. It was duty. He genuinely cared about honor, lineage, and legacy. Too much, maybe. But that was his story.
For me? The only thing that matters now... is surviving.
Still... maybe while I'm at it, I'll fulfill his will too. After all, I am Brad now—and there's no changing that.
My father is strict, yes—but only about results. He gives freedom, so long as you deliver. That's why Brad grew arrogant. Everything he had, he earned. And to be fair? He wasn't wrong.
"You have one month to prepare. I'll accept nothing less than first place," Father said, voice like steel.
My thoughts froze at the ultimatum.
"Yes, sir!" I replied, with the intensity of a soldier saluting a commander.
He nodded, and with that, I turned and walked out.