Darkness was not silent.
It was heavy.
A crushing pressure wrapped around Michael's consciousness, far denser than death itself. It felt as though his soul had been dropped into an abyss that rejected its very existence. There was no sense of time—only weight, endlessly pressing down on him.
Then came sensation.
Heat.
Cold.
Pain.
And finally—
Sound.
Muffled voices echoed from somewhere far away, distorted as though he were submerged deep underwater.
"…still no response…"
"…the child—his breathing—"
"…My Lord Duke, this is unnatural—"
Michael wanted to scoff.
Unnatural?
Compared to dying in a car crash and smiling while doing so?
His thoughts were sharp, perfectly intact. That alone told him something was wrong.
I'm thinking.
The realization struck instantly.
I shouldn't be able to think.
Death had claimed him. He remembered it clearly—the cliff, the fall, the crushing impact, the calm acceptance. There was no confusion about that.
And yet—
He existed.
A sudden, violent force squeezed his chest.
Instinct surged.
A cry tore from his throat, raw and piercing, echoing through the chamber.
"—He cried!"
"The young lord is alive!"
"He's breathing!"
The pressure lifted abruptly. Warm hands surrounded his body, lifting him into the air. Light assaulted his vision, blinding and chaotic. His body twisted instinctively, weak and uncoordinated.
This body… is not mine.
That was his first clear thought.
Michael tried to clench his fist.
It barely moved.
Tried to control his breathing.
It came in uneven, shallow gasps.
This body was fragile. Pathetic. Completely dependent.
But his mind—
His mind was untouched.
Cold. Calm. Perfectly rational.
Reincarnation, he concluded immediately.
Not possession. Not a dream. Not hallucination.
True reincarnation.
His vision slowly adjusted. Shapes sharpened. Stone walls towered around him, engraved with unfamiliar runes that pulsed faintly with blue light. Massive pillars held up a vaulted ceiling, from which chandeliers of glowing crystals hung suspended.
This was not a hospital.
This was a noble hall.
Servants dressed in medieval attire knelt on both sides of the chamber, their faces pale with fear and reverence. Knights clad in black steel armor stood like statues near the walls, hands resting on sword hilts.
At the center—
A man.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. His mere presence bent the air around him. Long black hair flowed past his shoulders, streaked faintly with silver, and his sharp eyes scanned the room like a blade.
Michael felt it immediately.
Authority.
This man was not powerful because of his title.
He had a title because he was powerful.
"The heir lives," the man said.
His voice was calm, deep, absolute.
"Summon the physician again."
A servant stammered, "M-My Lord Duke… the signs earlier—some believed the child might be—"
The man turned his head slightly.
Just slightly.
The temperature of the room dropped.
"Finish that sentence," the Duke said quietly.
The servant collapsed to his knees, trembling. "N-No, my lord… forgive me…"
"Good," the Duke replied. "Then remain silent."
Michael watched it all.
A duke.
The memories began to surface—not forcefully, but gently, like pages opening one by one.
This body's name was Aurelian von Blackthorne.
The eldest son of Duke Alaric von Blackthorne, ruler of the northern territories of the Blackthorne Dominion.
A family feared across the continent.
Not loved.
Not admired.
Feared.
The Blackthorne Dukes were executioners of kings, suppressors of rebellions, conquerors of borders. When the empire needed blood spilled without mercy, they turned north.
Yet this child—this body—had been born under a bad omen.
The night of his birth, the sky had darkened unnaturally. Beasts howled across the mountains. Mana currents twisted violently.
And the newborn heir—
Had fallen unconscious the moment he was born.
Whispers spread instantly.
A cursed child.
A bad sign.
A calamity.
Michael almost laughed.
How fitting.
He felt Duke Alaric approach. A massive hand rested against his chest. The Duke closed his eyes briefly.
A surge rippled through the room.
Mana.
Dense. Violent. Ancient.
The servants gasped as the air trembled.
"The mana is reacting…"
"No—this isn't normal—"
Duke Alaric's eyes opened slowly.
And for the first time—
He smiled.
"…Interesting," the Duke murmured.
Michael felt it then.
Something coiled deep within him.
Not mana.
Not divine power.
Something far more primal.
It was vast. Endless. Suffocating.
A force that rejected the laws of this world.
A force that existed only to end things.
So this is what I reincarnated as.
Not merely a noble.
Not merely a duke's son.
But a Calamity, sealed within flesh too fragile to contain it.
Michael accepted it instantly.
No fear.
No resistance.
He had lived his previous life without regret.
He would live this one without hesitation.
His eyes opened fully.
The room froze.
Bright silver hair framed his vision. His reflection shimmered faintly in a polished steel surface nearby—pale white skin, flawless features, and—
Red eyes.
Deep. Cold. Emotionless.
The Duke stiffened.
In the Blackthorne bloodline, red eyes appeared only once every few centuries.
They marked those who rewrote history through slaughter.
Conquerors.
Kings of war.
Aurelian met his father's gaze.
Even as a newborn.
Even while helpless.
There was no fear in his eyes.
No confusion.
Only emptiness.
Only calm.
Only dominance.
For a brief moment, Duke Alaric felt something unfamiliar.
Not pride.
Not concern.
But—
Respect.
He laughed.
A deep, thunderous sound that echoed through the hall.
"Hah… cursed?" the Duke said. "If this is a curse, then the world should tremble."
He turned to the kneeling servants and knights.
"Remember this day," Duke Alaric commanded. "The Blackthorne heir has awakened."
No one dared breathe.
Aurelian closed his eyes slowly, sinking into his consciousness.
Michael Smith is dead.
The Duke's eldest son lives.
And somewhere deep within his soul—
The Calamity stirred.