Chapter 1 — Moonlit Awakening
A dimly lit room lay silent beneath the pale glow of moonlight.
Heavy curtains swayed gently, and on a king-sized bed rested a young boy—no, a young man—who looked to be no more than fourteen.
"Ugh…"
A soft gasp escaped his lips as his eyelids fluttered open.
The first thing he noticed was the ceiling.
Too high.
Too ornate.
"…Where am I?"
He shot upright, the silk sheets sliding down his body as his eyes darted around the unfamiliar room.
Polished wooden furniture. Expensive-looking drapes. A chandelier that probably cost more than his entire family's house back on Earth.
"…This isn't my room."
His breath hitched.
"Wait—wasn't I in class just a moment ago?"
The last thing he remembered was staring at the whiteboard, half-asleep, wondering if he could survive another lecture without collapsing from boredom.
Then—
A circle.
A strange, glowing pattern spreading beneath the classroom floor.
And then nothing.
"So how did I end up in a place this ridiculous…?"
He sat at the edge of the bed, rubbing his temple slowly.
"I don't feel restrained… no ropes… no guards." His gaze swept the room once more.
"…So I don't seem to have been kidnapped."
A pause.
"…Which somehow makes this worse."
He exhaled, long and tired, like someone already fed up with the situation.
Then—
Something felt off.
He lowered his gaze to his hands.
They were smaller.
Slender. Smooth.
"…Huh?"
He lifted one, turning it over slowly, then touched his face.
His skin was firm. Young.
Too young.
"How am I this young…?" His voice dropped. "How is that even possible?"
A chill ran down his spine.
And then—
Pain.
"Ugh—!"
He clutched his head as memories came crashing in like a broken dam.
Images. Names. Places.
A different life.
A noble estate.
A woman with tired eyes but a warm smile—his mother.
Sword training that left his arms sore.
His knees buckled, one hand gripping the bedpost as his vision swam.
"…Tch."
It took several minutes before his breathing finally steadied.
"These memories…" he muttered, voice hoarse. "They aren't mine."
He let out a dry laugh.
"So I really did it, huh."
"…Transmigration."
For some reason, the realization didn't send him into panic.
More like… mild annoyance.
Of all the things that could've happened.
He straightened slowly.
"Whatever. Panicking won't make this disappear."
With that, he dragged himself toward the bathroom, posture lazy, steps unhurried—as if this were just another inconvenience interrupting his sleep.
The mirror greeted him with a stranger's face.
Black hair. Sharp brows. Eyes too calm for a fourteen-year-old.
"…So this is me now."
He tilted his head slightly, studying the reflection.
"…Not bad."
A thin smile tugged at his lips. "Guess I can work with this."
After a quick shower, he returned to the room, towel loosely draped over his shoulders, and collapsed into a chair beside the bed.
Only then did he allow himself to think properly.
The memories surfaced again—this time slower, clearer.
This body belonged to a native of this world, not a summoned outsider.
A fallen noble's son.
The world itself was vast—absurdly so.
An endless expanse where Lords were summoned from countless worlds, races, and civilizations.
Humans. Elves. Machines. Beings he didn't even have words for.
All of them granted territories.
All of them raising armies.
All of them struggling to survive, conquer, and eventually ascend.
But there was a distinction.
Summoned Lords—those dragged here by the world's will—were outsiders, gifted strange talents and bound to grow fast.
And Native Lords—those born here—who rose through inheritance, bloodlines, or sheer force.
This body…
"…Is neither," he murmured. "...or maybe both"
He had been meant to be summoned.
Instead, something went wrong.
Or perhaps—
Something interfered.
The memory of the summoning circle surfaced again, clearer this time.
Not just light.
But something merging into him.
Something vast.
Something heavy.
"…Troublesome."
He leaned back, closing his eyes.
"If this world really is what these memories say it is…"
"…Then being surviving would be difficult"