I died at forty.
Hiroshi Tanaka. Forty years of fluorescent lights, instant coffee, and quarterly reports that no one read. The truck came out of nowhere on a rainy Tokyo evening. One step off the curb, one blaring horn, one wet crunch. Lights out.
Then they came back on.
I woke in a four-poster bed under crimson silk. The air smelled of lavender and old wood. My hands were younger calloused, steady, strong. The mirror across the room showed a stranger: twenty-four years old, black hair in a low ponytail with faint gold at the tips, a few loose strands falling across cold steel-blue eyes. Black shirt, sleeves folded just above the elbows, tucked into black combat pants and polished black boots. A silver rose pin glinted on the left breast. A thin rapier leaned against the bedpost.
I knew the name before the memories settled. Michael Lambert. Captain of the knight guards at the Aetheria Academy of Mage Warriors. A-rank knight. Former crusader though the details were vague, like a story someone else had told. The academy's grand opening was one month away. I had read the book on the train. The Rose of Aetheria. Reverse harem. Magical academy. Villainess doomed to public humiliation. I was inside it.
I stood. Boots hit the rug with a soft thud. I fastened the rapier to my belt and adjusted the rose pin. The reflection looked bored. Good.
A knock at the door.
"Captain Lambert," a voice called. "Morning drills in one hour."
"On my way," I said, voice flat.
---
The training field was already alive when I arrived. Two dozen knights in light armor, swords drawn, running through warm-ups. The dawn light caught on steel and polished leather. I walked across the grass at an easy pace, hands in pockets, ponytail swaying slightly. The men noticed me and straightened. Not because I shouted. They just felt it.
Aura is not something you turn on and off. It is presence. Mine was heavy, quiet, constant. Stand within ten paces and the air felt thicker, the ground a little closer to your boots. It did not flare or shimmer. It simply was. The younger knights shifted their weight. One swallowed. No one spoke.
I stopped at the front of the formation.
"Sword forms," I said.
They began. I watched. My rapier stayed sheathed. The forms were clean but not perfect. I let them run through the sequence twice.
"Rowan," I said without raising my voice. "Left foot back two inches. You're over-rotating."
The boy adjusted instantly. His aura was faint, unformed. Mine pressed against it like a wall.
We moved to mana shields. I drew my rapier with a soft rasp of steel. A flick of the wrist and a translucent barrier snapped into place around me dense, even, unremarkable. The kind of shield that had stopped worse things than training spells. The knights copied the motion. Most managed a flicker. A few held steady.
"Again," I said. "Until it doesn't wobble."
They drilled for another hour. I corrected stance, grip, breathing. My tone never changed. When the session ended, the men were sweating and sharp. I dismissed them with a lazy tilt of my head and walked back to the barracks.
---
The captain's office was small and functional. A desk, a chair, a map of the academy grounds pinned to the wall. A half-empty bottle of amber liquor sat in the bottom drawer. I poured two fingers into a tin cup and leaned back, boots on the desk.
The timeline was clear. One month until the academy opened. Prince Cassian would arrive in three weeks to inspect the grounds and escort his fiancée. Lady Seraphina de Luthaine first-year noble, seventeen years old, daughter of Duke Luthaine would be with him. In the book, she was proud, beautiful, and engaged to a man she barely tolerated. When the heroine Elara Voss arrived with her circle of powerful suitors, Seraphina would be isolated, mocked, and broken in front of the entire student body.
Michael Lambert, in the original story, had watched from the sidelines. Dutiful. Silent. Useless.
I was not that Michael.
I had forty years of knowing exactly how people worked. How smiles hid knives. How kindness was a currency. How pride could be a shield or a noose. I knew the shape of humiliation before it landed. I was not going to let it land on her.
A knock.
"Enter."
A maid in grey stepped in and curtsied. "Lady Seraphina requests your presence in the grand hall, Captain. Security arrangements for the opening ceremony."
I drained the cup, set it down, and stood. "Lead the way."
---
The grand hall was still half-finished. Scaffolding lined the walls where workers installed crystal chandeliers. Sunlight streamed through the stained-glass phoenix window, painting the marble floor in shifting reds and golds. Lady Seraphina stood alone in the center, hands clasped behind her back, silver cane resting against her hip.
She wore a deep crimson gown, the color of fresh blood. Her black hair fell in loose waves to her waist. Violet eyes tracked my approach without blinking. Seventeen years old and already carrying the weight of a duchy.
I stopped five paces away and inclined my head. Not a full bow. Just enough.
"Lady Seraphina."
"Captain Lambert." Her voice was cool, precise. "You kept me waiting."
"Traffic," I said.
One eyebrow arched. "There is no traffic between the barracks and here."
I shrugged. "Still late."
She studied me for a long moment. Ponytail, folded sleeves, silver rose, bored expression. Her gaze lingered on the pin.
"You wear the crusader's mark," she said. "Yet I have never seen you in the field."
"I don't advertise."
Another pause. She felt the weight of my aura the way one feels a change in air pressure before a storm. It did not push or pull. It simply occupied space. Her shoulders squared slightly.
"The prince arrives in three weeks," she said. "and his heroine with him (if only she knew). I need this academy secured. Wards. Patrols. Contingencies. No scandals. No weaknesses."
I nodded once. "Report by dawn."
"Good." She turned to leave, then paused. "Your aura is… unusual."
"Gets that way," I said.
She glanced back. "It feels old."
I met her eyes. "It is."
She left without another word. The tap of her cane echoed down the empty hall.
---
I returned to the office and spread the academy blueprints across the desk. The grounds were massive—main hall, dormitories, training fields, library tower, greenhouse, dueling arena. I marked patrol routes in red ink. Wards at every gate. Knight rotations staggered to cover dawn and dusk. Mage instructors consulted for anti-illusion barriers. Contingency for noble duels, for assassination attempts, for a heroine who would charm half the student body into her orbit.
I worked through the afternoon and into the evening. The bottle stayed in the drawer. My handwriting was neat, efficient. Forty years of reports had taught me how to say everything and waste no words.
At midnight I rolled the maps, sealed them with wax, and walked to the grand hall. A single lantern burned by the phoenix window. Seraphina was still there, reviewing a ledger by candlelight.
I set the maps on the table beside her.
"Done."
She looked up. Fatigue shadowed her eyes, but her posture was perfect.
"You worked fast."
"Practice."
She unrolled the top map. Her finger traced the patrol lines, the ward placements. She nodded once.
"Acceptable."
I turned to leave.
"Captain."
I paused.
"You are not what I expected," she said.
I glanced back. "Good."
---
Back in my quarters, I removed the rapier and set it against the wall. The silver rose caught the moonlight. I sat on the edge of the bed and stared at my hands. Young hands. Strong hands. Hands that had never typed a single spreadsheet.
Forty years in a twenty-four-year-old body. The weight was still there, but the edges were sharper now. I had time. I had skill. I had a story to rewrite.
Seraphina would not break.
Not on my watch.
I lay back, boots still on, and closed my eyes. The lavender air settled around me like an old coat.
Tomorrow, the real work began.
---