"...three days now, and still nothing. Should we be worried?"
"The mistress said to keep tending him. His breathing's strong, at least."
"Look at those bandages though. Poor thing must have fought like a wildcat."
The voices drifted through layers of fog, sweet and melodic like church bells on Sunday morning. Ethan's consciousness floated somewhere between sleep and waking, caught in that strange twilight where dreams feel real and reality feels distant.
"His fever broke yesterday. That's a good sign."
"Mm. Pass me more of that yarrow paste. These cuts on his shoulder need fresh dressing."
Warmth pressed against his skin - soft fingers working at cloth bandages, the sharp herbal scent of something medicinal filling his nostrils. He tried to open his eyes but his lids felt weighted with lead.
"Careful around the ribs. Three of them cracked, the mistress said."
"Poor dear. What kind of monsters attack a boy on the road like that?"
The voices belonged to women, young from the sound of them. Their speech had an odd cadence, almost sing-song, with words that seemed familiar yet somehow... different. Like hearing English spoken with an accent he couldn't quite place.
Finally, after what felt like hours of struggling, Ethan managed to crack his eyes open.
The first thing he saw was candlelight dancing across stone walls. Not the harsh white of fluorescent bulbs or the blue glow of his computer screen, but actual flame flickering from brass sconces mounted in iron brackets. The light cast everything in warm amber tones, shadows swaying gently with each flicker.
Three young women moved around his bed - and what a bed it was. The frame was carved dark wood, possibly oak, with thick posts that rose toward a ceiling of exposed beams. The mattress beneath him felt stuffed with something soft but firm, not the cheap foam he was used to. Linen sheets, actually linen by the feel of them, rough-spun but clean.
The women wore dresses that belonged in a Renaissance fair. Long-sleeved gowns of undyed wool, the fabric coarse but well-made, cinched at the waist with rope belts. Their hair was braided and pinned under white cloth caps that covered everything except their faces. One had auburn curls escaping around her ears, another blonde so pale it was almost silver, the third dark brown like polished wood.
"Oh!" The blonde noticed his open eyes first. "He's awake!"
They gathered around the bed like flowers drawn to sunlight. The auburn-haired one set down a wooden bowl filled with something that smelled like mint and rosemary. The brunette held a strip of clean linen, half-unrolled.
"Can you hear us, young master?" the blonde asked, her voice pitched high and sweet. She had a heart-shaped face dusted with freckles, green eyes bright with concern. Maybe seventeen or eighteen years old. "You've been sleeping for three days."
Ethan tried to speak but only managed a dry rasp. His throat felt raw, like he'd been screaming.
"Don't strain yourself," the auburn-haired girl soothed. She looked older, maybe twenty-two, with fuller curves beneath her rough dress and laugh lines around her brown eyes. "You've been through quite an ordeal."
The brunette, youngest of the three with a narrow face and serious dark eyes, studied him carefully. "Do you know where you are?"
He stared at them, brain struggling to process what he was seeing. Medieval clothing. Stone walls. Actual candles for light. Either this was the most elaborate dream he'd ever had, or...
"I'll fetch Mistress Catherine," the brunette said when he didn't answer. She gathered her skirts and hurried from the room, wooden shoes clicking against stone floors.
Minutes later, footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Not the quick patter of the maid, but something more measured, elegant. The remaining girls straightened, hands smoothing their aprons.
The woman who entered took Ethan's breath away.
She stood maybe five and a half feet tall, with the kind of natural grace that made every movement look choreographed.
Her gown was burgundy silk, rich enough to gleam like wine in the candlelight. It clung more than it should have, tracing the line of her waist and the curve of her hips before spilling into heavy skirts.
The neckline was cut modest by noble standards, but the swell beneath the fabric made his throat go dry. Gold thread stitched across the bodice in looping patterns, decorative on the surface, yet placed in a way that dragged his gaze exactly where it shouldn't.
Even the way she moved felt deliberate. Every step was smooth, hips shifting under silk.
But it was her face that stopped him cold. Mid-thirties, he guessed, with the kind of beauty that didn't need paint or powder. High cheekbones, a straight nose, full lips that curved naturally upward at the corners. Her hair was golden brown, braided into an elaborate crown that left a few silky tendrils to frame her face. And her eyes...
Goodness, her eyes. Deep blue like summer twilight, warm and intelligent, with tiny lines at the corners that spoke of frequent smiles. They held genuine concern as she looked down at him, not the calculating look he'd expect from someone rich enough to wear silk.
"So you're awake at last," she said, settling gracefully into a wooden chair beside the bed. Her voice was lower than the maids', cultured but not cold. "I was beginning to worry we'd lost you."
She gestured for the remaining maids to step back, giving her space. "Can you speak, young man? I know your throat must be terribly sore."
Ethan opened his mouth but nothing came out except another rasp. He felt like an idiot, staring at this gorgeous woman like a slack-jawed fool.
Her expression softened with sympathy. "Don't force it. You've been through hell and back." She stood and moved to a small table, pouring water from a clay pitcher into a wooden cup. "Here. Small sips."
She lifted his head gently, one hand behind his neck, and brought the cup to his lips. The water was cool and clean, tasting faintly of mint. He managed a few careful swallows before she pulled it away.
"Better?" When he nodded slightly, she smiled - and God, what a smile. It lit up her whole face, made those blue eyes sparkle. "Good. Now, can you tell me your name?"
He stared at her, brain spinning. What was he supposed to say? That he was Ethan Parker, dead twenty-something loser from another world? That he'd been electrocuted while using a high-tech sex toy and somehow ended up in what looked like medieval times?
Her brow furrowed with gentle concern when he didn't answer. "The merchant who found you said the messengers sent to your step mother to deliver the news of your attack called you Corin. Is that right?"
The name hit him hard in a strange way, as if it rang a bell but he just couldn't place his fingers on why it did.
"Don't worry if you can't remember everything," she continued, mistaking his shock for confusion. "Severe wounds can cause temporary memory loss. The important thing is that you're alive."
She rose from the chair, smoothing her silk skirts. "I'm Lady Catherine Ashford, and this is my manor. You were brought here three days ago, more dead than alive. My girls have been tending your wounds, but I've sent for a proper healer from the capital."
She moved toward the door, then paused. "This city may be large, but most of our local healers are little more than herb-peddlers and charlatans. I want the best hands working on you - someone who actually knows what they're doing."
Lady Catherine smiled at him again, that warm, genuine expression that made his chest tighten in ways that had nothing to do with his injuries. "Rest now. The healer should arrive by evening, and then we'll have you properly looked after."
The maids filed out behind her, leaving him alone in the flickering candlelight. The moment the door closed, Ethan let out a shaky breath.
"What the fuck?"
His voice came out hoarse and unfamiliar. Not just from the throat injury - it was different. Younger. The accent was wrong too, matching the strange cadence he'd heard from the maids.
He looked around the room properly for the first time. Stone walls, yes, but not crude castle stonework. These were dressed blocks, fitted together with skill, the surfaces smooth and even. Tapestries hung from iron rods, showing scenes of hunting and feasting in rich blues and golds. The floor was flagstone covered with woven rugs that looked expensive.
The furniture was all wood - the bed, chair, table, a large chest against one wall. No machine marks, everything shaped by hand tools. The brass candlesticks were heavy and well-made, the flame steady in glass chimneys.
A window on the far wall showed gray sky through thick glass panes set in lead. Real medieval-style glass, slightly warped and bubbly.
'Where exactly am I?' he wondered, trying to piece together what Lady Catherine had said. She'd mentioned a city, called it large. And she'd sent to the capital for a healer, which suggested they weren't in the capital themselves.
The memory hit him like a freight train. The porn. The VoltPulse X1. The electrical surge, the burning smell, the pain ripping through his chest. He'd been dying - no, he had died. He remembered that floating sensation, the darkness closing in.
And now he was here. Wherever here was.
This had to be some kind of afterlife experience, right? Maybe he was in a coma, his brain creating elaborate fantasies while doctors worked to save him. Surrounded by beautiful women tending his wounds, a gorgeous noblewoman showing him kindness - it was like every teenage fantasy he'd ever had.
'This has to be heaven,' he thought. 'I mean, I never hurt anyone. Never committed any real crimes. Sure, I was a loser, but that's not exactly a mortal sin. It only makes sense I'd end up here,'
But if this was heaven, why did everything hurt so damn much? His ribs ached with every breath. His shoulder throbbed where the crossbow bolt had hit. His head pounded like someone was using it for anvil practice.
That's when he looked down at himself and nearly screamed.
These weren't his hands. The skin was paler, the fingers longer and more calloused. Scars crisscrossed the knuckles that he'd never had. When he touched his face, the bone structure was all wrong - sharper jaw, different nose, no glasses because apparently he didn't need them anymore.
"No... no, no, no..." He threw back the linen sheet and stared at a body that definitely wasn't his. Taller, leaner, all sharp angles and wiry muscle. The chest was bandaged but he could see enough skin to know this wasn't the soft, pale flesh he was used to. This body had been worked hard, shaped by physical labor.
The room spun around him as panic set in. He wasn't in heaven. He wasn't in a coma. He was in someone else's body, in what looked like an actual medieval world, and he had no fucking idea how or why.
Pain exploded through his skull like lightning. He doubled over, hands pressed to his temples, as images flooded his mind. Not his images - someone else's memories forcing their way into his consciousness.
A blacksmith's forge, the heat of the fire, the ring of hammer on anvil. A woman with black hair and laughing eyes - Liora. Running through moonlit forests, desperate kisses, promises whispered in the dark. A cold-eyed stepmother counting coins. Guards in black leather, the long walk toward servitude.
Bandits. Steel singing through the air. The taste of blood and terror. Falling, dying, darkness...
"Corin," he whispered, the name torn from his lips. These were Corin's memories, Corin's life, Corin's death.
The wave of sympathy that hit him was unexpected. This kid had been through hell - losing his parents, getting stuck with a stepmother who saw him as a burden, falling in love with a girl he could never afford to free, getting sold into servitude, dying alone on a forest road.
'Shit,' Ethan thought, 'if someone hijacked my body after I died, I'd be pissed as hell. That's just not fair.'
Maybe part of him cared more than he wanted to admit. But Corin was gone, and someone had to live in this body now. Might as well make the best of it.
"I'll live for both of us," he said quietly, as if the dead boy could hear him. "I'll make it count, I promise."
So he was Corin now. In another world, another time, with a whole new life ahead of him. It was like those web novels he'd read - transmigration, reincarnation, second chances in fantasy worlds.
The excitement hit him like a drug. A fresh start! No more dead-end job, no more crushing loneliness, no more living in that shithole apartment surrounded by energy drink cans and shame. He could be anyone here, do anything, maybe even find love with someone like that beautiful Lady Catherine...
But wait. In those novels, the protagonists always got something extra. Systems, special powers, cheat abilities that let them dominate their new world.
What did he get?
He felt around his body, searching for any sense of supernatural strength or magic. Nothing. He tried to sense mana or qi or whatever fantasy worlds used. Still nothing.
Maybe it was mental? He sat perfectly still, eyes closed, trying to meditate himself into enlightenment. Concentrating on his breathing, his heartbeat, reaching deep inside for any spark of otherworldly power.
Nothing. Just a sore body and a headache.
"Are you fucking kidding me?" he muttered. "I get the transmigration experience but none of the benefits? What kind of cosmic joke is this?"
He was about to launch into a full rant about unfair afterlife policies when something shimmered at the edge of his vision. A translucent pink screen, floating in the air like a hologram.
[Hello host]
[Congratulations, you have been reborn]
Ethan's heart nearly stopped. He blinked hard, shook his head, but the screen remained. Glowing soft pink letters against transparent background, clearly visible but somehow not blocking his view of the room behind it.
"Holy shit," he breathed, then grinned like an idiot. "I do have a system! I fucking knew it!"
He leaned forward eagerly. "Okay, what are you? What can you do? Please tell me you're going to make me incredibly powerful so I can impress that gorgeous woman and maybe get a harem going."
The screen flickered, new text appearing.
[First, let me introduce myself. I am Parasite, your interactive AI designed to keep your lonesome self company...
And you, Corin, are my host]
[Rejoice!!]
"Parasite?" Ethan frowned. "That's... not exactly what I was hoping for. What kind of system are you? Combat? Magic? Crafting?"
The screen pulsed brighter.
[Prepare for full synchronization]
[Warning: Extreme pain incoming]
"Wait, what?" Ethan sat up straighter, alarm bells going off in his head. "What do you mean extreme pain? Can't we just—"
The screen went blank. Then the world exploded into agony.
Every nerve in his body ignited at once. It felt like being torn apart from the inside out, like acid flowing through his veins, like lightning crackling between his bones. He screamed, back arching off the bed, muscles seizing in spasms that felt like they might snap his spine.
The pain was everywhere and nowhere, abstract yet visceral, beyond anything he'd ever imagined possible. His vision went white, then red, then black as consciousness fled from the assault.
In the darkness, something alien stirred to life inside him, making itself at home in flesh that was no longer entirely his own.