Booting Up
Charlemagne awoke to the oppressive stillness of the East Wing—too quiet for a house this large, too clean for anyone to truly live in. The ceiling above him bore faded murals of long-dead ancestors with judging eyes and flaking gold halos. One particularly smug-looking duke stared down at him with all the warmth of a tax audit.
He groaned and rolled onto his side, joints creaking like a broken antique. His body still ached—less than yesterday, but only just. At least his spleen wasn't trying to exit his body anymore. Small wins.
Then it happened.
A sound—mechanical, ethereal, and entirely impossible.
Ding.
It echoed not in the room, but in his skull.
Charlemagne Ziglar had never heard a voice inside his head before—not unless one counted the bitter echo of past betrayals or the occasional internal screaming.
But this?
This was different.
[System initializing... SIGMA Protocol: Active. Biometric Sync: 94%... Error. Host cultivation compromised. Initiating adaptive override. Soul imprint detected: Charles Alden Vale.]
He groaned, half from the stabbing headache and half from the utterly mechanical, smug tone reverberating in his mind.
"Oh, good," he muttered, blinking at the cracked wooden ceiling. "Now I'm hearing voices. The forest wasn't trippy enough."
He sat bolt upright—then immediately regretted it. "Ow, ow, okay… maybe don't do that again…"
[WARNING: Cognitive dissonance detected. Please refrain from sudden movement during integration. You are technically still an idiot.]
"What the hell?" Charles—no, Charlemagne—clutched his head as a rush of light and data seared behind his eyes. Numbers. Names. Memories. Stock portfolios. Sword techniques. Fashion critiques. Entire spreadsheets of interdimensional cultivation theories and psychological warfare strategies.
All of it flooding into his mind like someone had torn open a data dam in the middle of a concussion.
[Welcome back, Founder. You have died. Again.
Would you like to file a complaint? (Y/N)]
"…Very funny," he muttered. "I build a billion-dollar psychotronic interface with neural fusion capabilities and this is how it greets me?"
[Sarcasm detected. Personality imprint confirmed. Welcome back, Charles Vale. You have successfully activated SIGMA: Strategic Interdimensional Growth and Management AI.]
He sat bolt upright, ignoring the pain that lanced through his abdomen.
"Wait. SIGMA? You mean the prototype project I built to hack into subatomic soul resonance theory? The thing that got banned by four countries and classified by the Warden Alliance as 'existentially dangerous'... that SIGMA?"
[Affirmative. You are currently inhabiting the body of Charlemagne Ziglar, almost sixteen years of age, cultivation aptitude: below average. Social status: noble embarrassment. Dantian: shattered. Reputation: laughable. Prognosis: tragic.]
He squinted. "Thanks for the pep talk. What's next, a motivational speech about dying in a ditch?"
[Motivational subroutines are available upon request. Shall I begin?]
"Please don't."
[Understood. Initiating silence subroutine.]
Charlemagne—no, Charles—dragged himself off the bed. The aches were still there, but they were manageable now. And more importantly, his mind was sharp. Sharper than it had ever been.
He opened the window, letting a gust of mountain wind sting his cheeks. Somewhere down in the courtyard, a servant dropped a basket of linens in shock upon seeing him.
He grinned. "Ghosts do walk, apparently."
[Would you like a status report?]
"Hit me."
[SIGMA Report:
Soul Fusion: 98% Complete
Memory Integrity: 92%
Host Compatibility: Stable
Physical Attributes: Subpar
Cultivation: Inactive due to dantian rupture
Available Functions: Combat Forecasting, Mental Conditioning, Economic Simulation, Strategic Planning Suite, Passive Skill Optimization
Locked Functions: Quantum Rift Travel, Dimensional Recall, Divine Skill Archives]
Charles raised a brow. "That's... depressingly accurate. Any good news in there?"
[You are alive.]
"Generous."
He paced the room. This was it. The SIGMA Protocol, once theoretical, was now real. Bound to his soul. And embedded in a magical, hierarchical, qi-infused feudal nightmare.
Fantastic.
[Would you like a tutorial?]
"No," he said reflexively. "I invented you, remember?"
[Correction: You invented 64% of my final structure. The rest was compiled by smarter people after your unfortunate death. You're welcome.]
He rolled his eyes. "You've gotten sassier."
[You've gotten weaker. How are those noodle arms doing, Your Grace?]
The mirror across the room confirmed what he already knew—he still looked like porcelain royalty with a tragic backstory and a fan club. He scowled at his reflection.
"Alright," he muttered, pacing. "Let's work with what we've got."
He summoned the interface—no vocal command necessary. It responded to thought. A transparent panel shimmered before his eyes, bathed in soft blue light.
[CHARLEMAGNE ZIGLAR]
Age: 15
Realm: None (Dantian Shattered – Restoration Pending)
Qi Affinity: Unknown
Body Constitution: Weak (Restorative Adaptation Underway)
Soul Tier: Gold-Soul Fragment (Merged Entity)
Status: Recovering / Syncing
[Note: You are currently the magical equivalent of a decorative vase. Please avoid combat, running, shouting, or deep emotional conversations.]
"Oh, go to hell."
[Already did. You're the result.]
He chuckled despite himself.
Sarcasm. Snark. Systems.
Yeah. He was back.
But the laughter faded quickly.
This wasn't Earth. There were no lawsuits to file, no corporations to dismantle, no power launches to win. This was a world of qi, steel, and supremacy. Here, titles were forged in war, and respect was earned in blood.
And Charlemagne Ziglar? He had no cultivation. No allies. A shattered dantian. And parents who didn't even check if he was still breathing after his assassination attempt.
Well.
That just made the game more interesting.
[Reminder: Echo Synchronization begins at midnight. Recommend: Do not die again before then.]
"Duly noted," he muttered.
A knock came at the door.
Anya's voice followed. "My lord, breakfast has been sent from the main kitchen."
"I'll be there shortly."
He glanced once more at the system panel.
"Alright," he whispered. "Let's rebuild an empire."
Finally. I was getting bored.
The boy whose life he now wore had been discarded like garbage. Beaten. Betrayed.
Not again.
Not this time.
Charles Alden Vale may have died in his world, but here, with SIGMA whispering in his ear and vengeance boiling in his blood, he would rise.
And everyone who laughed at Charlemagne Ziglar?
They wouldn't be laughing for long.
Calculations and Conspiracies
Charlemagne strolled down the corridor of the East Wing manor like a ghost pretending to be noble.
Every creaking floorboard, every flickering lantern along the walls seemed to flinch from his presence. The few servants he passed averted their eyes with practiced deference, though one boy tripped over a mop and whispered something about "resurrection magic."
Good. Let the rumors spread. Fear was a fantastic currency—no credit score required.
His bare feet padded softly on the cold stone floor. Robes still too large for his frame dragged slightly behind him, but he carried himself differently now. Straighter. Quieter. Like someone who'd stopped caring about whether the world understood him—and started calculating how to dominate it.
[SIGMA: Neural Sync at 99.2%. Emotional Dampeners recalibrating. Shall I assist in suppressing homicidal urges toward your assassins?]
"No need," he muttered. "That'll be dessert."
He turned a corner toward the lesser study—a place no one sane visited anymore. The room had once belonged to his grandfather, a war strategist obsessed with maps, birds, and poisoning people with honeyed wine. It had remained untouched since the man's suspicious death by "falling onto sixteen arrows."
Perfect place for thinking.
The door creaked open with a reluctant sigh, revealing dust-choked shelves and parchment maps yellowed with age. A cracked inkpot sat on the desk, congealed like coagulated blood. It smelled of parchment, old ink, and secrets.
He stepped inside and shut the door.
Light filtered through the lattice window just enough to make the air shimmer with dust motes. He sat, exhaled slowly, and summoned the interface.
The panel flickered back to life.
[Strategic Mode: Enabled]
Objective: Ascension from Trash Tier to Tyrant Mode
Resources Available: 1 bedbound body, 0 cultivation, 1 disgraced noble title, 1 emotionally dead soul AI
Charles grinned.
"Let's make a business plan."
He swiped open the first tab: Local Politics.
House Ziglar. Northern Duchy. Currently ruled by the Iron Duke himself—Alaric Ziglar. His father in title only, and a military glacier in temperament. If Alaric had smiled once in the past twenty years, it had likely been when someone was disemboweled in front of him.
Then there were his siblings:
Garrick Ziglar – Firstborn, heir apparent, built like a siege weapon and only marginally more articulate. Could punch through walls. Probably couldn't spell "subtlety" without help.
Seraphina Ziglar – Second born. Brilliant, deadly, and rumored to have read Art of War backward just to challenge herself. Could probably decapitate you with a spoon.
Both of them likely assumed he, the Third Son, had died. Neither had visited.
"Sweet of them," Charles muttered.
[SIGMA: Current family standing – non-existent. Recommend feigned weakness and emotional manipulation until sufficient strength is acquired.]
"Oh, you sweet cynical machine," he murmured. "You do know me."
Next tab: Enemies.
Marcus Drekor – Second son of Count Thomas Drekor. Sword talent. Charismatic. Trusted him like a brother. That ended with a blade to the skull.
Amelia Gayle – Daughter of Baron Arnold Gayle. Fiancée. Beautiful. Deadly. Masterclass in sociopathic charm. Shattered his dantian with a smile and a kiss.
Both were now at the top of his spiritual tax audit list.
He tapped the table slowly. "They'll never see me coming."
[SIGMA: Shall I begin outlining a revenge strategy? Include public humiliation, economic ruin, or lethal poetic justice?]
"Yes."
[Elaborate.]
"All of the above."
Then came the final tab: Cultivation.
Charles stared at the entry:
[Qi Core: Shattered]
[Meridian Pathways: Damaged]
[Dantian: Inactive]
[Estimated Recovery Time: Unknown]
Well.
That was inconvenient.
But it's not impossible.
Not with SIGMA. Not with a soul born from strategy, baptized in betrayal, and given a second life with a vengeance clause.
He opened the sub-directory labeled "Forbidden Recovery Theories."
A soft chime echoed.
[Warning: These techniques have been deemed catastrophic by at least 9 spiritual governance bodies and 1 interdimensional peace accord.]
"Perfect," he said.
Then another ping.
[You have unlocked a starting capital of 100,000 Arcana gold coins directly converted to this empire's currency from SIGMA's Interdimensional Survival Vault. You may withdraw the resource as gold coins from the interdimensional inventory.]
Charles blinked. "Wait, I have a starter pack?"
[SIGMA: Even reincarnation comes with benefits. You're welcome.]
He barked a short laugh. "I died, and I'm still better funded than half this noble estate."
[Correction: You are now richer than 84.2% of the empire's Tier 4 duchies.]
"I've missed you," he muttered.
Someone knocked twice at the door.
He tensed—then relaxed as the voice floated in, muffled but sharp.
"Brother," came Seraphina's voice, "word spreads fast. I heard you rose from your grave."
He didn't answer immediately. Just stared at the dusty window.
"Still collecting myself," he finally said, voice cool.
"You always were slow," she said sweetly. "I'll visit tomorrow. Try not to die again."
Her footsteps faded, light and deliberate.
He chuckled darkly.
"I won't. But some people might."