Location: Westland Kingdom – St. Delara Medical Center
A body lay still in a dim hospital room, machines beeping steadily.
Young. Pale. Unremarkable to most eyes.
Ha… Where am I?
The thought echoed in Marcus's head like a whisper in a cold, empty chamber.
His eyelids fluttered open slowly. Bright light greeted him—too white, too clean. He winced, blinking against the glare. The ceiling above him was sterile and flat, lit with a square panel that hummed softly.
His limbs were heavy. His head ached, a dull throb behind his eyes. He tried to move, but his arms felt like they were submerged in lead.
Hospital?
He slowly sat up, ignoring the way the room spun around him. His fingers instinctively went to the back of his head where the ache throbbed sharpest. It wasn't just pain—his entire body felt… wrong. Off.
He looked down.
His hands—soft. Small. Unfamiliar.
His breath caught.
What the hell…?
There were no callouses. No scars. No marks from years of wielding a sword, of climbing walls, of holding reins through battle. These hands were pale and slightly chubby. Childlike.
With trembling urgency, he pulled back the sheets and stared at his legs. Slim. Untrained. Weak. He touched his torso and found no trace of the rigid muscle memory he'd spent a lifetime building. His heart pounded louder now, thumping in his ears.
Is this a dream? Some sort of illusion?
He scanned the room—modern, quiet, unfamiliar. Strange machines beeped softly around him. A transparent bag hung beside his bed, an IV line attached to the back of his hand.
He ripped the needle out with a grunt, watching the thin trickle of blood that followed.
Pain.
Real.
Not a dream.
He swung his legs off the bed and stood up shakily, his bare feet cold on the tile floor. His gaze scanned the private room—clean, minimal. A silver bowl of fruit sat on a tray near the window. Driven by some instinct he didn't fully understand, he dumped the fruit out and lifted the bowl to eye level.
What stared back at him made his breath freeze.
A stranger.
A round-faced teenage boy with pale skin, deep green eyes, and soft, flushed cheeks. An oval jawline. A mop of dark hair. The face blinked when he blinked. Tilted when he tilted.
He nearly dropped the bowl.
Who… is this?
He touched his cheek. Slapped it. Hard.
The sting was real. The redness bloomed instantly.
"No," he whispered, backing away. "No, no, no…"
His mind raced.
He remembered everything. The cliff. The mercenaries. The knife to the back. The fire. The pain. His own blood spilling onto stone.
I died.
So how… how was he alive?
A cold panic clawed its way up his spine.
Suddenly, the pain came again—this time not physical. A searing agony behind his eyes, like his brain was being cracked open. He screamed and fell to the floor, clutching his head with both hands.
Images.
Flashes.
A boy's voice. A mother's smile. A dark room glowing with computer light. Cold dinners. Harsh words. A chokehold in the dark.
Memories—not his—flooded in, overwhelming him.
"Leo! Dinner's ready!"
"He's useless. Look at him—he can't even make eye contact."
"Spyder's online again. Move in 30 minutes."
"I don't want to be here anymore…"
He curled into a ball on the floor, eyes clenched shut, heart thudding wildly.
The door burst open. Two nurses and a doctor rushed in. One of them shouted for assistance. Another tried to hold him down. A syringe pierced his arm. A moment later, the burning in his brain began to fade, the world blurring around him.
And then—blackness.
Sometime Later
Marcus opened his eyes slowly.
The room was dimmer now. The light softer.
He sat upright in the bed, breathing deeply. The pain had passed, but the memories hadn't faded. They still lingered. Not just images—but feelings. Thoughts. Fragments of a boy's life.
Leonard Wembley.Eighteen. Shy. Brilliant. Bullied. Alone.Dead.And now… Marcus Roland lived in his place.
He leaned forward and stared at his hands again, studying the fingers, the nails, the skin. There was no going back. He was not in Albion anymore.
His body—the one that had survived battle after battle, the one that once knelt before kings and stood above enemies—was gone.
His soul had survived, but at a terrible cost.
And Leo—Leo had died in the shadows of his own home. Murdered by someone who didn't want him to be remembered.
Marcus swallowed the bitterness rising in his throat.
He didn't know Leo. Not really. But he had felt his last thoughts. His fears. His confusion. His loneliness.
That final moment—someone's arm around his neck. The panic. The darkness. The betrayal.
Someone in that house wanted him dead. And they got what they wanted.But they didn't expect me.
Flashback: Life of Leonard Wembley
The memories came more clearly now—flowing instead of crashing.
Marcus sat quietly as Leo's life unraveled before him.
Leo had been the fourth child of Paul Wembley, the cold and powerful Chairman of the Wembley Group.
Paul had four children:
Luther, the eldest—driven, handsome, and successful.
Lesley and Linley, the glamorous twin daughters—smart, sharp, and beloved.
And Leo—the youngest. The afterthought. The ghost in the hall.
His mother, Mia, had once been a maid. Beautiful, quiet, with sad eyes and a fragile heart. Paul married her after rumors circulated that she was the reason for his divorce from his second wife. Their union was scandalous—and short-lived.
Mia died by suicide when Leo was just five. After that, the Wembley household became a fortress of cold walls and colder glances.
Leo was left to rot in silence.
He took refuge in computers—coding, gaming, hacking. A brilliant mind, hidden from a world that never wanted him. His online identity, Spyder, was known in places where governments feared to tread.
But to his family, he was a nobody. A loner. A failure.
And then one day, someone ended his life.
Just like that.
Marcus's fingers curled into fists.
Leo didn't deserve that.
No one did.
Thank you, Leo, Marcus thought quietly. For giving me this body. This chance.
In return, I swear—I'll find the one who ended your life.And when I do… they'll know what it feels like to die afraid.
He exhaled slowly and let the silence settle around him.
He wasn't just a soul in a new body.
He was a storm, wrapped in silence. A war waiting to happen.
They thought Leonard Wembley was gone.
They had no idea who had taken his place.