I tried to stand, and everyone around me suddenly remembered I existed.
Several guards in full plate armor rushed toward me and tried to slam me back to the floor. I struggled, but it's hard to fight back when your knee twitches and kicks empty air instead of landing a punch.
When the first two couldn't pin me down, four more jumped in to help. Together, they managed to hold my limbs and spread-eagle me on the stone floor.
"Check the seal!" barked the fat man, excited at the thought of his future crown.
A squat cultist scurried over. With a wave of his hand, he tore open the remains of my silk shirt, revealing a complex carving on my chest, knife-etched lines crusted with dried blood. The moment I saw the ruined flesh, a strange déjà vu hit me. I felt like I recognized the pattern, like I was just on the verge of understanding what it meant.
"Master! The demon is bound and securely sealed in the body, but..." The short cultist suddenly clamped a hand over his mouth and scuttled over to the throne to whisper something to the fat man.
The glutton's face twisted like he'd bitten into a lemon. But he quickly wiped away the displeasure and raised his voice theatrically.
"Demon, who shall be called Astarot. I... Guards, bring him closer!"
Two of the armored thugs yanked me upright and dragged me toward the throne. Fair enough, yelling across half the Grand Ritual Hall wasn't very dignified. Wait... how do I know what this hall is called?
"Move your legs, demonic filth!" snarled one of the guards, unhappy that I wasn't helping. He spat on my doublet. Big mistake.
The body reacted on its own. A single blow launched the fool a dozen meters through the air, slamming him into a stone wall so hard it cracked. The second guard recoiled in horror, unable to look away as the first slowly slid down, leaving a bloody smear behind.
The fat man just smiled.
"Strip the armor off that failure and toss the body into the pit. And someone help Lord Astarot walk." When the guards hesitated, the glutton roared, "Now! Or you'll join the next batch of peasants in the sacrifice circles!"
The guards scrambled. Two of them respectfully took me by the elbows and continued leading me forward. Good timing. Standing on my own was difficult. Hell, even that was generous. The poor bastards practically had to drag me.
The lesser cultists shrank back from our path. Their deep hoods hid their faces, but I was sure their eyes kept flicking back to the corpse.
The corpse whose armor they still couldn't pry off, crushed as it was by the blow.
I thought I heard the cultists whispering. The words were indistinct, but I could feel their emotions on my skin: fear... and awe?
The guards hauled me up to the throne and bowed before their massive master.
Up close, I finally got a good look at him. His enormous gut was swaddled in red silk robes like the other cultists, but his were embroidered with gold and encrusted with rubies. He didn't bother with a hood. His lumpy head, fringed with thinning wisps of hair, was topped with a massive golden crown studded with pigeon-egg-sized rubies. Real modest.
"I am Baron Clemen Brute of the Northern Mountains, of House Brute. I summoned you into this world, and now you are my faithful weapon. Your power pleases me, and I shall reward you accordingly. You shall have innocent blood and peasant souls in any reasonable quantity. Please me further, and I may even grant you the souls of the gifted."
He fell silent, awaiting my response. I was utterly lost. Souls? Blood? What the hell was he talking about? Why did he think I was a demon? Logic suggested I shouldn't argue with the bastard. Better to play along for now and figure things out later.
A whisper echoed in my mind, growing louder by the second. I focused.
"Kneel and call me master! I bind you by your true name!"
I felt a faint compulsion I could easily ignore. I glanced at the fat man. His face was crimson from the effort, sweat beading on his brow. Seemed like ordering me around wasn't easy for him. Should I pretend to obey? Kneeling before this pig disgusted me.
But my knee made the decision for me, finally buckling under my weight. I collapsed onto the cold stone floor and growled with a disobedient tongue, "Go to hell."
Too bad it came out as garbled nonsense.
The fat man sighed in relief and dabbed his face with a silk handkerchief.
"I grant you permission to absorb the memories of your vessel, so that you may serve me better." He turned to the guards and the short cultist by the throne. "Escort my servant to the Lesser Ritual Hall. Help him absorb the remains of the viscount."
The guards respectfully supported me again and followed the waddling cultist leading the way.
Lie, Baron.
I could feel it. The seal was flawed, and through its cracks, more and more knowledge was leaking into my mind. I already knew the castle's layout as well as the short cultist did—maybe better. I'd spent a lot of time in that Lesser Hall myself, cutting up peasants for experiments. Wait—I did? Damn it, my mind's slipping. Who am I? I can't even remember my name.
Like in a fog, I lay down on the already-prepared ritual circle. Visions swam before my eyes. The first tournament, recruiting my team... then empty castle halls and alchemical experiments. My first girlfriend, university life. Fields of lava in Hell. Historical reenactments and blank cartridges mixing with scientific treatises. Hatred and loneliness. Wild parties with friends.
I didn't see the cultist touch the figure carved into my chest, but I felt the effect instantly.
The world was drowned in darkness.
***
"Master, are you alright?" said a sweet voice.
I forced my eyes open. A wooden bar counter. The sharp stench of alcohol. Had we gone overboard at the Golden Dragon again? No... wait.
My thoughts crawled sluggishly, and my whole body felt numb. I slowly lifted my head from the counter. My gaze immediately locked onto the girl who had spoken—stunning curves, tight waist, but her clothes... strange. I'd only seen that kind of outfit in medieval-themed games.
The place was even stranger. A dark tavern of some sort. Only candlelight—no electric lighting. What the hell was this? Where was I? I tried to get up from the stool and almost fell over. My body felt wrong. Unfamiliar. Like it wasn't even mine.
"Master?!" squeaked the waitress, quickly catching me before I collapsed.
"Wa-kh... Water!" I croaked. My throat was so dry, it felt like I hadn't had a drink in days.
The girl dashed off to get water, and I was left trying to piece together scattered fragments of memory. The tournament. Victory. The Golden Dragon? No. Samael's call...
"Your ale, Master." She handed me a clay mug—another oddity.
I downed the liquid in one go, and felt a bit better... up until the moment I noticed the hand holding the mug wasn't mine. Shocked, I dropped it.
"Oh!" the girl cried out as the shards scattered across the—bar? Tavern?
I felt my face. The sensation was at once familiar and foreign. What the hell is going on?
"I need a mirror."
"I'm sorry, we don't have one, I'm so sorry! I'll find one, I swear!" she cried in panic, bowing again and again.
"Wait. Call the owner."
"No need, I'm here." A plain-looking man emerged from the shadows behind the counter. "How can I serve you, Master Randall?"
Randall... That name stirred something, but nothing clear.
"How long have I been here, and how did I get in?" Asking him directly who I was would be too risky.
"You arrived a week ago, as usual. You ordered wine and snacks and enjoyed yourself in the private room. Yesterday, you asked for brandy and decided to sleep in the common hall," he rattled off in a rehearsed tone. But his beady little eyes darted around nervously. He was lying. No doubt about it.
A hot wave of rage swelled in my chest. How dare he lie to me like that in a situation like this?
"Now tell me the truth. Or things will get unpleasant." My tone turned threatening. The man flinched.
"Master Randall... I... You were brought in this morning by Baron Clemen's messengers. You were unconscious. They swore to me it was all routine! I swear I didn't know! I would've notified the castle right away if..."
I cut him off with a wave of my hand. Clemen. Baron Clemen Brute. The ritual. The pig on the throne. I remembered. But why was I here? Did he let me go? Did the ritual backfire? Damn it. I clutched my throbbing temples.
"I'm a viscount. Viscount Randall Condor..." I muttered. Just words, but behind them lay a whole life I couldn't recall.
"Yes, my lord, we agreed that whenever you needed..."
"Silence."
The man shut up instantly.
Bits and pieces came back. This tavern... the viscount used it whenever he needed to meet with shady contacts. While everyone thought he was off on a drinking binge, Randall was busy with forbidden rituals and... human experiments. My memory served up vivid highlights. Women. Children. I instantly vomited onto the bar.
"Master..."
"I'm... fine. Bring me something stronger. Now."
How the hell did I end up going from an eSports champion to a fantasy-world Josef Mengele? That would have to wait. For now, what mattered was that my trained alchemist's eye spotted residue of sleeping root in the vomit. In such a concentration, it could have knocked out a bull—permanently.
Looks like the baron tried to quietly dispose of his failed experiment.
After ten minutes of retching, I finally emptied my stomach and decided I'd live. Maybe even thrive, because once the poison was gone, I felt a sudden surge of strength.
The tavern door slammed open, letting in a blinding shaft of sunlight, and a filthy street kid rushed in.
"Boss, there's some people outside asking about the viscount... They're already heading this way."
"Ma—" the owner started.
"I left hours ago!" I snapped instantly.
Whoever they were, I'd rather not meet them right now.
"And if they—"
"You'll tell them I've been drinking myself stupid. If I remember right, this tavern has a back exit? Lead the way."
The man sighed but obeyed.
We wandered through cellars for a few minutes before I emerged into the sunlight in an unremarkable alley. The door closed behind me.
Filthy streets, stone houses. Beggars in rags and somewhat cleaner townsfolk. Guards in worn gambesons, servants scurrying around. A classic medieval fantasy city in all its glory—dominated by a massive cliff crowned with a white-stone castle. No idea how many resources that architectural wonder consumed... or how they even hauled the materials up there.
Maybe this isn't real?
After wandering the area for a while, I gave up and accepted the inevitable. No, this wasn't a dream—that little bastard Samael had really dumped me into another world somehow. Fine. Sooner or later, I'd show that smug little magical prick what happens when you mess with someone trying to celebrate a well-earned victory. I raised a fist to the sky and shook it in defiance. If the heavens are against me—I'll crush them!
"Well, well, look who it is," came a lazy voice. "When my servants told me some filthy tramp had the gall to don noble garments, I didn't think I'd actually run into you. Seems the rumors were true—the Condor bastard really has fallen low."
A short teenager stood there, decked out in a ridiculous plum-colored outfit. Behind him stood two guards in matching colors, armed with spears.
I slowly lowered my fist. I'll admit, shaking it at the heavens probably looked a bit dumb. But I was entitled, not every day you get tossed into another damn world. That's no reason for this brat to start in on me. I gave him a closer look — he seemed vaguely familiar. Looks like the previous owner of this body had some history with him.
"What's the matter, scum? Greet the lord of this city properly."
"You're the lord?" I raised an eyebrow. "Aren't you a little short for the job?"
I'm polite — but only to those who deserve it.
"You... you! Duel! Right now!" The brat flushed so red, his face matched his outfit.
Thank god my clothes were black and respectable, not some circus reject.
"A duel? Are you insane, you little clown? Go change into something less embarrassing."
But the noble whelp wasn't interested in advice.
"You two! Stay out of it! I'll deal with this insult to my family's name myself!" he barked, drawing a sword that gleamed red.
A dyed blade? Seriously?
"I'll cut out your filthy bastard tongue!" the pint-sized lunatic screamed and charged.
The body's reflexes kicked in on their own. I reached for my sword and grabbed empty air. Damn it, where the hell was my weapon? No time to wonder. His blade was already swinging, aiming to cleave me in half.
I dodged to the side, thank the gods for my gamer reflexes.
But then the sword bent mid-air, like it was alive, following my movement. Magic!
I felt, rather than understood , that he'd tapped into his Source. And I realized I had one, too. I mirrored his move on instinct.
His blade hit my unarmed arm and didn't cut. Instead, it exploded into droplets, as if it had been made of water.
"My bloodmetal! How?" he gasped, staring at the disintegrated weapon.
That's when my punch landed. Square in the jaw. The little noble crashed onto the cobblestones. Rule one of fighting don't get distracted.
To my surprise, the kid didn't pass out, just shut up for a bit. He'd definitely lost his will to fight, though. Good enough.
"You. You-u-u!" he growled, rubbing his jaw.
"What? Want some more?" I spat.
The brat shot me a death glare and turned on his guards, who were just trying to help him up.
"Useless mutts! Why didn't you teach this filth a lesson?!"
"But, sir, you ordered us not to interfere…" one guard stammered and paid for it.
"You dare blame me for your failure?" The broken blade in the brat's hand morphed into a dagger. He didn't hesitate.
"You. Dared. Accuse. A noble. Of BE-ING WRONG?!" Each word was punctuated by a stab. Again and again, the dagger plunged into the guard's body. The other man recoiled in horror and bolted, leaving his comrade behind. Blood soaked the cobbles.
The victim tried to crawl away, but the brat pinned him down and kept stabbing. A brutal execution in broad daylight — this kid was a full-blown psychopath. I'd seen plenty of horror in my life, but even I froze at the sight.
The guard convulsed one last time and the maniac turned to the fleeing one.
"You. You didn't help either."
The second guard dropped his spear and ran for his life. The noble raised a hand — I could feel him charging up another spell. If I didn't stop him now, the guy was dead.
Like hell I'd let that happen.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, you little freak?!" I shouted, buying a moment before tackling him off the corpse. The dagger flew out of reach.
"How dare you interfere? They're my servants — I'll do what I please!" the bastard shrieked, struggling in my grip. I felt him reach for his Source again, and the dagger began to tremble, slowly inching toward him. Not happening.
I hurled him ten meters down the street, stormed after him, and grabbed him by the hair.
"Your servants, huh?"
I smashed his face into the cobblestones. Stone chips, or maybe teeth, flew.
"Little creep, who the hell do you think you are?"
Another blow. And another. The cobbles turned red. Finally, the psycho went limp. Even his magic-enhanced body had its limits and I'd just found them.
Shouts echoed through the street. A squad of guards armed with spears and halberds was already running my way. I glanced at the murdered guard, then looked down at the unconscious brat. For a second, I considered smashing his head open like a melon. But that would take time and his skull was stubborn.
I left the spoiled noble lying in the street and made a tactical retreat — grabbing the discarded spear on my way out.
***
A dusty attic in some workshop turned out to be a perfect hiding spot, while guards scurried below, shouting. From their frantic yelling, I gathered that the face I had recently introduced to the cobblestones belonged to none other than the city lord's son.
Great. Just what I needed, a run-in with the spawn of the man who apparently thinks street executions are proper parenting. I'd shaken off the pursuit, but my clothes were far too conspicuous. Once the sun set, I'd try to grab something less eye-catching and get out of this city.
I stretched cautiously, easing my sore muscles, and pulled the spearhead from my pocket. I'd had to ditch the shaft, no way it would fit through the attic hatch. But I'd kept the metal tip, and that was enough to experiment with my new powers… or at least to get a good look at my new face.
I focused on the faceted metal, trying to summon the feeling I'd had during the duel.
Nothing. Damn it.
Again. And again… Finally, the tip shimmered in my hand, melting into a pool of liquid metal. Like holding mercury! Some of it dripped through my fingers and splashed onto the floor, but it was enough. I stared into the makeshift mirror and grinned.
Not bad. Not worse than before. Actually… better, if I'm honest. The skin's a bit pale, but nothing a little sunlight won't fix.
A loud sneeze yanked me out of my admiration. I spun around and saw a pile of rags in the corner stir. Well, well. I crouched low and crawled over, tossing the cloth aside. Dust flew everywhere.
"Achoo!" One of the hidden kids sneezed right into my face. The other bowed low and squeaked:
"Please don't kill us!"
"Why would I kill you?" I asked, genuinely confused.
"Well… we saw you…" one of them started, only to be cut off by the sneezer:
"Nobles don't need a reason to kill someone," he hissed, eyes full of anger.
Charming society. How has no one put these aristos on pikes yet?
"You've got magic. What could we do?" the boy added gloomily.
Crap. Did I say that pike thing out loud?
"Hmph. Don't worry, I'm not gonna hurt you. I didn't see you, and you didn't see me. Deal?"
"Yes, sir…" said the first one, bowing again. The other just nodded, a fire burning in his eyes. Something told me that if he had any real magic talent, he'd already be lunging at me. I instinctively scanned him… and sure enough, he had a spark of magical potential. Tiny, though. He'd never be a mage.
Still, that reminded me, I had two potential sources of intel hiding in my attic, and since I couldn't leave while the guards were combing the streets, I might as well use the time.
I didn't want to throw my aristocrat status around. No need, really — I had a better idea.
I picked up the now-solid lump of metal, focusing again.
This time it took fewer tries. Magic was responding better and better. The lump floated up and reshaped into a tiny metal truck — nearly a perfect replica of the old toy handed down from my great-grandfather. My grandfather had chewed it up and broken everything in sight with it. Then my dad. I even chipped a tooth on its steel roof once. That thing was built to last. Probably the reason I got into reenactments in the first place…
"What is that? Some kind of weird cart?"
Brave kid. The other one was still cowering in a corner, silent, but this one walked right up. If he had a bit more talent, life would be a lot more interesting for the local nobles. Still, he had a point — I was being dumb. A truck? In a world like this? Their tech level was pre-industrial at best. With a sigh, I let the figure melt again and reshape into a hussar on horseback, saber raised.
"Why isn't he wearing armor?" the boy asked, eyeing it suspiciously.
"Because he's not a noble. You answer a few easy questions — he's yours."
"Deal! Ask away, sir!" The boy's eyes sparkled.
Perfect. Now I could ask almost anything without raising suspicion.
"Let's start simple… Where is House Condor's estate?"
"Pfft, everyone knows that. Your castle's visible from every part of the city."
I dashed to the window — no way…
Even earlier, while wandering the streets, I'd noticed the massive, unnatural cliff that dominated the city. Too symmetrical. Too clean. Too artificial.
"…They say that long ago, Lord Condor hired a mighty Archmage who raised the castle from the earth itself, making it unassailable…"
Yes. That's exactly how it happened — whispered Randall's memory. One of our founders emptied the family treasury and pulled every string to hire the Archmage of Earth, who created that miracle. That decision saved our house. Assaulting a fortress perched on a sheer cliff was simply too costly, so…
"…Grandma always says, 'Shame Count Condor doesn't rule the city anymore. Things were orderly under him…'"
…so in the end, all they could take was the city below.