When Kael Thompson opened his eyes again, everything was wrong.
A sharp pain pierced his skull like a screwdriver to the brain. He groaned, clutching his temples as his vision blurred with a blinding red light. His hands felt... different. Too smooth, too young. A gentle breeze brushed his face, carrying the scent of grass—real grass, not the synthetic air freshener bullshit of his city apartment. He blinked, slowly focusing on an open wooden window to his right. A green curtain fluttered lazily, sunlight spilling across a bed that wasn't his.
"What… the hell…?" he muttered, sitting up too fast. "Ow! My fucking head…"
The bed beneath him creaked. The sheets reeked faintly of alcohol and sweat. The room around him looked like something straight out of a historical drama: wooden furniture, an oil lamp on a desk, hand-painted portraits of a handsome young man and his parents, and bottles scattered everywhere.
"This ain't my apartment," he rasped, voice younger than it should be. "Where the fuck am I?"
Just as the question left his lips, a voice echoed inside his skull.
[Hello, Host.]
Kael froze. "Who said that? Where are you?!"
He whipped his head around, eyes darting across the empty room.
[No need to look around, Host. I am inside your mind.]
"Inside my mind?" Kael blinked. "Wait—don't tell me… is this one of those black-ops experiments? Did some corporation kidnap me while I was asleep? Oh god—did they implant an AI chip in my brain?!"
He stumbled to his feet, pacing the creaky floorboards, muttering like a conspiracy nut. "Makes sense. I'm a nobody—perfect lab rat. No one'd miss me. Fuck, did they drug the beer?"
He started pacing, muttering nonsense theories under his breath.
[Please calm down, Host. No one is performing human experiments on you.]
[You just died.]
Kael froze, one hand on a bedpost. "I died?" His voice cracked, half-laugh, half-terror. "That's supposed to calm me down? How's being dead better than a brain chip?"
[Of course. Death is better than human experimentation.]
[Besides, you are no longer on Earth. You are in the world of Astraea.]
[Your identity: Kael Valenheart, Lord of the Barony of Duskmoor.]
Kael blinked blankly. "...Come again?"
[You are no longer Kael Thompson of Earth. You are Kael Valenheart of Astraea.]
Silence. Then, slowly, a manic grin spread across his face.
"You mean… I transmigrated? Like in those web novels I read?"
[Affirmative.]
Kael clutched his chest, trembling. "No way. This is it! My moment! I've finally become the protagonist!"
[Yes, Host.]
"I'll have a cheat, right? Some kind of golden finger that'll help me dominate this world and face-slap nobles left and right?"
[Yes, Host.]
"Seriously?!"
[Yes, Host, yes.]
The conversation almost sounded comical — a mix of awe and absurdity echoing in the quiet room. Kael's eyes misted over, and tears of joy slid down his cheeks.
After a long, shaky breath, he finally calmed himself. "Alright… alright. You must be my golden finger, then. Some kind of system, right?"
[You are absolutely correct, Host.]
[I am your golden finger.]
[Designation: The Dominion System.]
Kael's grin widened, his heart pounding in disbelief.
The kingdom-building nerd who died like an idiot in his sleep… had just woken up as a lord in a world full of magic, nobles, and opportunity.
And this time, he wasn't going to be a pushover.
****
So… after an hour of sitting on the bed and letting the migraine fade, I finally finished sorting through this body's memories.
And I realized something very important.
I'm in deep shit.
Apparently, as the system said, this body—now my body—belongs to Kael Valenheart, Baron of Duskmoor, a frontier barony of the Aranthian Empire.
When I first heard that, I was thrilled.
A noble! A freaking title!
I pictured silk sheets, banquets, servants fanning me while I sipped wine.
Yeah… no. Turns out I couldn't have been more wrong.
This place isn't declining—it's already six feet under. The vultures are just waiting for the corpse to stop twitching.
The numbers are a fucking nightmare. No treasury—unless you count twelve gold crowns and a handful of silver as "wealth." Instead, I'm drowning in a debt of 12,000 gold crowns to the Merchant Guild of Lyrne. Food reserves? Barely enough to feed a dog, let alone the measly 500 villagers still clinging to this wasteland. And that's a shrinking number—people are fleeing like rats from a sinking ship. The land's vast, sure, but it's barren as a nun's bedroom. No crops, no trade, just dirt and despair.
And the kicker? The old Kael, the kid I replaced, became baron at twenty because his dad croaked, leaving him this mess. The poor bastard couldn't handle the pressure—creditors hounding him, nobles sneering, villagers starving. He drowned his days in cheap booze, bottles scattered everywhere like his broken dreams. Then, one night, he chugged poison to end it all. That's how I, Kael Thompson—ex-corporate drone, virgin loser—ended up in his skin.
I slump back, rubbing my face. "Sigh… So I died broke and transmigrated even more broke. Heck, I'm sitting on a mountain of debt." My voice is hoarse, frustration boiling over. "This is some cosmic fucking joke."
[Affirmative, Host. Statistically, even a roadside beggar possesses greater liquidity than you.]
I glared at the ceiling. "Did you just—did you sass me?"
Before I could argue with the glorified calculator in my head, someone knocked on the door.
Lena. The maid. If the memories were right, there were barely ten people left in this so-called castle—Lena, an aging steward, my widowed mother and little sister, a couple of cooks, and a handful of knights who were probably only here because they couldn't find better jobs.
"Come in," I called.
The door creaked open, and in stepped Lena.
She was tall, with silver-blonde hair tied neatly behind her head and sharp emerald eyes that could probably shame a duchess. Even the worn, faded maid uniform couldn't hide her figure, though the way she carried herself screamed discipline over vanity.
Her nose wrinkled the moment she entered. The smell of stale alcohol must've hit her like a wall—empty bottles littered the floor, some still dripping onto the carpet.
I just stared, caught somewhere between admiration and embarrassment.
"Master? …Master!" she shouted, snapping me out of it.
"Ah—yes! What is it?" I said quickly, trying to act like I hadn't been openly gawking.
"Nothing urgent," she said, bowing slightly. "You were late for breakfast, so the mistress asked me to check on you. Are you feeling unwell?"
"I'm fine," I said, clearing my throat. "Just… overslept. I'll be down in a moment."
"As you wish, my lord."
She curtsied, turned, and left, closing the door softly behind her.
The room fell silent again.