Leo woke up to pain.
Not the dull ache of an all night study session, but a sharp, burning agony in his side and ribs. He tried to sit up, but a wave of nausea hit him, and he sank back onto a bed that was too soft and smelled strongly of lavender and dust.
Wait. Where was he?
He was no longer in his small, messy apartment near the university. The room was huge, lit by tall, narrow windows. Expensive blue silk covered him, and the walls were lined with dark wood and tapestries showing armored men hunting deer.
He lifted his hand. It was pale, thin, and covered in fine, expensive rings. It was not his hand.
Panic, cold and sharp, gripped his throat, but before he could scream, a wave of terrible, crushing memories slammed into him. They weren't his. They belonged to the body he now wore.
A kick to the gut. The smell of old wine.
"Look at Prince Theron, still crying. A true shame to the Valerius name!"
The cruel, laughing faces of his older cousin, Varrus, and Varrus's sneering friends. They were always bigger, stronger, and meaner.
Theron was never meant to be a prince. He was weak. He was afraid of a sharp look, terrified of a drawn sword, and a constant target. Day after day, the kicks, the pushes, the whispering insults about his lack of courage and his uselessness had broken him. The last memory was a dark corridor, the muffled thuds of a beating, and a final, dull blow to the back of the head.
Leo gasped, pulling the foreign memories into himself. The fear that had killed the original owner of this body, Prince Theron is gone. In its place, a different feeling bloomed in Leo's chest: rage. It was hot, simple, and satisfying.
"They did this to him," Leo muttered, running his fingers over the bruised ribs. He wasn't crying. He wasn't planning an escape or searching for a science explanation. He was analyzing a target. The men who did this needed to be handled. Not reasoned with. Handled.
Leo, the student, had always loved a fight. He was the kind of person who didn't back down from a challenge, who lived for the moment the odds were against him and he had to push through sheer force. He was a battle junkie, and these memories were the strongest drug he had ever been given.
This body is weak, he thought, testing his thin arm. But it is mine. And I have a long list of debts to collect.
As he decided this, a cool blue screen flickered into existence right in front of his face. It was completely impossible, yet perfectly clear.
**System Activation Complete: War Aspect**
Host: Theron Valerius (Access granted: Leo)
Status: Fallen Prince
Current Task: Restore Honor.
Warning: Host body health critical. Physical Strength: 2/10.
Leo grinned, a hard, cold expression that Prince Theron had never been capable of.
"Restore honor?" he whispered, his voice hoarse. "No. The honor is broken. I'm here for the bloodshed."
The system screen shifted, showing a simple mission log.
**Objective 1: First Vengeance**
Target: Varrus and his two companions.
Reason: Unpaid Debt (Physical Harm and Humiliation).
Location: The Southern Practice Yard (Likely to be present at midday training).
Reward: +5 STR, +1 Aspect Point (AP).
Leo checked the light outside. Midday was soon. He stood up, testing his legs. He found a plain leather tunic and pants in a nearby chest, leaving the delicate silk robes behind.
He didn't know this castle. He didn't know this world. He had no sword, no power, and a broken body. But he had the System, and he had a fire in his heart that demanded an answer for every kick Theron had taken.
"Varrus," Leo said, practicing the name. "You're going to learn that the prince you beat is dead. And the one who took his place... he fights back."
He kicked open the door and stepped out into the ancient, silent hallway, hunting for a way to the practice yard.