Chapter 1: Awakening in Trash (Part 1 — The Waking of Eliot Astervale)
The first thing Eliot Astervale felt was the weight of air — heavy, perfumed, and expensive.
The second was the splitting headache that came with the realization that this wasn't his bed.
And the third, most crucial, was the horrifying fact that his body wasn't his.
He groaned softly, rolling over on silk sheets softer than anything he could have afforded in his old life. The scent of lavender, polished oak, and candle wax filled his senses. His fingers brushed against something smooth — fabric threaded with gold.
Then came the voice.
"Young Master Eliot, the morning bell has rung twice already!"
The tone was polite, but sharp enough to cut steel. Eliot froze, his half-awake mind clawing at the sound like a drowning man reaching for air. That voice—he knew it. From the pages of a book he had once read religiously, long nights before sleep, back when the world was ordinary and predictable.
The book had been called Song of the Spirit King.
And in that book, the name Eliot Astervale belonged to a spoiled noble failure. A side character so infamously useless that readers made memes about him. The "Trash of the Astervale Family." A boy so arrogant and lazy that his downfall became one of the novel's earliest emotional high points.
Eliot sat up abruptly. The sunlight filtering through velvet curtains stabbed at his eyes. His mind raced, memories of the novel colliding with strange new ones — sword duels, laughter at banquets, whispers of spirits in the halls of Astervale Manor.
"No way. No freaking way."
He rubbed his temples.
In the mirror opposite his bed, a handsome young man with dark, sleep-tousled hair stared back. His eyes were sharp, the same deep green described in the novel's early chapters. His skin was fair, his jaw sharp — the very picture of a young aristocrat.
And yet, the smirk that pulled at his lips was nothing like the original Eliot's.
This one was cunning. Calculating. Human.
"...So I've been reincarnated. Into the trash noble."
His voice sounded almost amused — though the amusement was laced with disbelief. He looked around the room again, now taking it in properly: the ornate wardrobe carved with spirit runes, the glass vials of glowing essence on the dresser, the faint hum of power beneath the floorboards.
This wasn't just a mansion. It was a Spirit Nexus, one of the most valuable estates in the kingdom.
The same estate that would soon burn to ash — if the novel's timeline held true.
Eliot took a deep breath, forcing his thoughts to order. His old self — the modern man who'd read too many novels — had been an introvert with a sharp mind and sharper survival instincts. He'd learned to think in contingencies, to calculate odds, to quietly outmaneuver people stronger than him.
Now, those same skills might actually keep him alive.
"Let's see. In the book, the Spirit War begins in about a year. Eliot gets disowned by summer. And by winter, the entire Astervale line is…" He grimaced. "...gone."*
He wasn't about to let that happen.
Pulling on a silk robe, Eliot crossed to the window. Outside, the Astervale grounds stretched in glittering perfection — gardens laced with shimmering petals, fountains humming with spirit energy, servants moving in disciplined rows. At the far edge, the family's Spirit Obelisk pulsed faintly, like a slumbering heart.
The sight would have inspired awe in most people. But Eliot only sighed.
"Peaceful, beautiful… and doomed. Fantastic."
The door opened suddenly, breaking his reverie.
"Young Master Eliot, you'll be late for breakfast again," said a composed male voice.
Standing in the doorway was Kieran, the head butler. His appearance was immaculate: gray hair slicked back, uniform crisp, eyes cold enough to freeze lava. But the strangest thing about him wasn't his composure — it was the faint shimmer of energy around him, subtle yet deadly.
Eliot recognized it instantly.
Spirit-imbued stealth.
The mark of a former assassin.
In the novel, Kieran had once been an infamous killer from the Nightblade Clan before swearing loyalty to the Astervales. A butler with a history of death. Loyal to the family — and later, to Eliot's sister.
"Thank you, Kieran," Eliot said smoothly, hiding his turmoil behind a faint smile. "I'll be down shortly."
The butler blinked, faintly surprised.
In the old timeline, Eliot would have sneered or thrown something at him.
Kieran's gaze sharpened. "…Very well, young master. I'll inform the kitchen."
He bowed slightly and left. Eliot exhaled. The interaction had been brief, but already, he could feel how delicate this world was. Every word mattered. Every gesture could ripple into disaster.
He dressed quickly — crisp white shirt, dark vest embroidered with silver threads, boots polished to an aristocratic shine. The act of tying the final clasp felt surreal.
In his head, his new identity settled like a mask.
He wasn't just Eliot anymore. He was a survivor in disguise.
As he left his room, the hallway seemed alive. The manor pulsed faintly, the walls whispering with fragments of spirit voices. He paused, listening.
"—the wind stirs again…"
"—his energy is different—"
"—a new scent… of mortality and memory…"
He frowned. The voices weren't distinct, but they carried a strange rhythm — one he shouldn't have been able to hear at all. Humans without contracts couldn't perceive the whispers of free spirits.
But he could.
He filed that information away. There would be time to explore it later.
Downstairs, the grand hall was a spectacle of wealth. Chandeliers of spirit crystal refracted the sunlight into a dance of colors. Portraits of ancestors loomed overhead — warriors, scholars, and summoners who'd bound spirits of light, flame, and wind. The Astervale lineage was one of power and pride.
And now, Eliot was the weak link in that chain.
Or so everyone thought.
At the far end of the dining table sat Benedict Astervale, his elder brother. Silver-haired, dignified, and wearing the quiet authority of a seasoned knight. His emerald eyes were sharp as blades.
Across from him, humming softly, was Amelia, the youngest sibling — a girl of maybe fifteen, with silver-blonde hair and bright blue eyes that shone with an almost childlike wonder. A small wisp of golden light floated near her shoulder — a minor healing spirit, its form faint and playful.
Eliot's lips curved faintly. Amelia was the novel's hidden gem. A natural spirit medium — pure-hearted, naive, and destined to become a saint.
"Brother!" Amelia waved excitedly as he entered. "You're awake early today!"
"Early?" Benedict's tone was dry. "It's past eight. He's late as usual."
Eliot offered a polite nod as he took his seat. "A miracle happened. I decided to live another day."
The servants paused mid-step at his words, uncertain whether to laugh or shrink away. Amelia giggled anyway. Benedict merely sighed.
"Try to live in a way that doesn't ruin the family's image," Benedict muttered.
Eliot picked up a slice of bread, spreading honey across it with lazy precision. "Noted. I'll aim for quiet ruin, then."
Even Amelia choked on her juice at that.
But beneath the table, something stirred — a flicker of light, a tremor of unseen energy. Eliot froze. It wasn't hostile, just… curious. Something was watching him.
A ripple passed through the room — subtle, almost imperceptible. Benedict's spirit sword, resting by the wall, gave a faint hum. The golden wisp near Amelia flickered, hiding behind her hair.
Eliot's hand twitched.
There it was again.
A whisper. A presence.
Then, in the reflection of his spoon, he saw it — a pair of faint amber eyes, gleaming from the shadow beneath his chair.
"...You're finally awake, Master Trash," said a voice dripping with smug amusement.
Eliot didn't react outwardly, but inside, his mind screamed.
The fox spirit. Whisper.
The sarcastic tone, the illusion aura, the presence half-invisible to all but him — it was exactly as the novel described. A sealed ancient fox spirit, bound to Eliot's bloodline long ago. In the story, it was dormant until the "real" Eliot's death.
So why was it awake now?
He kept eating calmly, lips curving faintly. "So it begins," he murmured under his breath.
Whisper's laughter curled around his thoughts like silk and smoke.
"Oh, you have no idea what you've awakened, little Lord of Trash."