Shou Nilski's heart jumped.
What the hell…?
He quickly pushed his hair aside with trembling fingers, tilting his head to see better. The burn was still raw, the texture uneven and red, like half-cooked meat. It was healing, yes, but slowly, and the damage looked deep.
He took a step back from the mirror, eyes wide.
How the hell is someone still alive with burns that nasty on the head? And there were also some on the body as well.
That wasn't just surface damage; that should've killed someone.
His breath quickened as realization befell him. The pain made sense now.
"Vlad Romanov died..." he whispered aloud as his gaze fell on the scorched floor. He burnt to death. Probably…
Shou stood still for a long second, heart hammering. His head started to throb once again, making his hand shoot up without thinking.
He realized mid-motion and tried to stop, but his hand grazed the edge of the burn.
"Tch–!"
He winced, flinching instinctively as a white-hot sting lanced through the side of his skull. A sharp, blinding pain like his nerve endings were screaming.
Damn it hurts! His chest rose and fell heavily. The more he thought about it, the more his pulse refused to slow.
He took a deep breath, feeling his heart race faster, to calm himself.
The pain subsided after a few seconds.
Shou Nilski looked down and saw his chest rising and falling.
He took a deep breath, crouched slightly… and jumped.
His body shot upward like a spring, then landed lightly a moment later, his boots thudding softly on the floor, knees bent to absorb the force.
There was no resistance. No imbalance. It was seamless. Natural. Fluid.
He stared at his reflection, heart thumping from surprise.
He flexed his arms, shifting his stance.
Is this guy an Olympic gymnast or something?
His mind reeled, not just from the pain anymore, but from the alien grace in this new body.
Whatever training or genetics this Vlad had, it's next-level.
He clenched his right fist tightly, testing the healing his 'transmigrator perk' was providing.
A memory fragment suddenly triggered as Shou Nilski's eyes locked onto an object resting near the edge of the bedside table. A dark, polished emblem etched in gold, unmistakable in its design.
Two swords forming a cross. A third driven through the center, pointed down like a spear of judgment. And from those blades, six wings unfurled, spread wide, regal, and terrifying.
It radiated power and authority.
The crest of House Romanov.
That's not something that can be placed out in the open like that…
Vlad Alekein Romanov was a direct descendant of House Romanov, a lineage rich in legacy and veiled in power.
Originally a Barony, the Romanovs had risen quietly from the ranks of Minor Houses to the Majhe Houses, gaining influence not through politics or wealth, but through unwavering loyalty and indispensable service to the Imperial Family. For generations, they had acted as the Empire's hidden sword, completing the tasks no other noble house dared to touch. Intelligence, war, diplomacy, even silent purges. The Romanovs had done it all in service of the throne.
Their merit and loyalty were so exceptional that, more than once, the Emperor himself had offered to elevate their status to that of a Duchy.
Each time, they refused.
Instead, the Romanovs accepted something else: special privileges, freedoms and influence equal to that of a Great House, even while still holding the rank of a Majhe House. They were given autonomy, allowed to operate independently of many restrictions other noble houses were bound to. They became powerful… but still flew under the radar.
But that fragile balance lasted until nine thousand years ago.
It was then that the first Count, Emaelik Romanov, accepted the elevation of their house from Barony to County. With it came vast new territories, a military force rivaling that of a Great House, and most of all, attention. They no longer merely held influence equivalent to a Great House; they were one in all but name, practically a true Great House still wearing the fading mask of a Majhe lineage.
The moment the House Romanov stepped into the light, eyes from across the universe turned toward them. Allies grew cautious. Enemies began to scheme. The threat toward their successors, toward the bloodline itself, was at its highest.
For over thirteen millennia, they did not falter. They ruled with precision, protected with pride, and upheld their ancient vows as the sentinels of the Kalobelt frontier. No storm could shake them.
Until recently.When tragedy struck and the burden of legacy fell onto young shoulders.
At only nineteen, Vlad's older brother ascended as Count, forced to take the mantle far earlier than anyone had prepared for. Both their parents had passed. One illness. One unexplained incident.
Whispers of instability rippled across noble courts. Vultures circled. And yet, even then… the Romanovs did not bend.
Valken bore the burden of leadership with strength, but he had yet to produce an heir, even after six years of marriage.
That meant only one other stood in line: Vlad.
Young. Brilliant. Gifted. And at the time, extremely vulnerable.
Knowing what could happen if Vlad's identity became public, Valken made a ruthless but necessary choice: he erased Vlad from the eyes of the universe.
No records. No appearances. No titles. Vlad became a ghost and the last safeguard of House Romanov's future, hidden away where even the Empire's nobility wouldn't think to look.
After the memory fragment flashed through his mind, Shou Nilski took another look at himself in the mirror.
He lives in Bruno under the guise of being a wealthy businessman's son…
He let out a dry, almost disbelieving chuckle.
The Romanovs are practically perfect at utilizing their bodies that are biologically conditioned to be the best possible version of a human…
Also… why don't I have any memory fragments related to his parents? Seems like some of the original Vlad's memories were lost because I'm a transmigrator. Shou Nilski wondered, stepping back and forth. Maybe he was too little to remember much?
He glanced down at the blood-soaked pale skin of his half-naked body.
Right… I should probably stop walking around half-naked, drenched in blood, in a noble's mansion.
He turned his head, eyes narrowing. There, on the left side of the room. A memory nudged at him from somewhere deep in Vlad's inherited instincts.
There should be a wardrobe there, but I need to get rid of all this blood.
Thanks to Vlad's memories, he made his way to the attached bathroom. He found a towel, drenched it in the basin, and then wiped the bloodstains from his body.
After checking himself in the mirror as best he could and confirming that there was no blood on him other than his head, which was still in the process of healing, he came out of the bathroom. He quickly walked over to the door of the wardrobe and reached for the handle. The moment it clicked open and retracted into the wall, a cool gust of air spilled out.
His eyes widened.
It was an entire walk-in wardrobe. A massive one. Dimly lit by soft white panels along the ceiling and floor edges, the room stretched out with rows upon rows of clothes. Coats, jackets, shirts, boots, gloves, formal wear, casual wear—even cloaks. Everything from high-fashion, jewel-threaded nobility attire to simple, practical field garments. Expensive and cheap. Military and civilian. Neatly arranged by color, type, or occasion.
Shou Nilski stepped inside, letting the door close behind him with a soft thud.
His fingers glided across the fabrics as he walked—a cascade of silks, linens, synthetic polymers, and rich wools brushing beneath his touch.
He muttered to himself, eyes scanning over endless options, "You wouldn't be able to go through all of these in two or three years... even if you wore each one for a day."
His gaze finally landed on something simple: a fitted black high-collar shirt, made from a sleek material that shimmered faintly in the light. Stylish, clean, functional. No embroidery. No ornaments. Just sharp, plain elegance.
This'll match the pants… and the shoes, too.
He took it down, slid it on carefully, and buttoned it up as he walked back toward the main room, every step echoing in the silence of the grand wardrobe.
The fabric hugged his form perfectly.
He glanced once more at his reflection in the tall mirror inside the wardrobe.
He looked… like a noble.
Like Vlad.
***
He walked out, the door closing behind him with a low thud.
The soft echo faded into the quiet of the grand room.
Shou Nilski moved his arms, rolling his shoulders, rotating both wrists in slow circles, testing the fabric. The shirt stretched with him easily. It was smooth, flexible and tailored to fit Vlad's frame with almost uncanny precision. There was no stiffness, no awkward pull at the seams.
Not bad at all. I was expecting something tighter, or at least something that screamed 'noble pain-in-the-ass.'
He stretched both arms overhead, then bent down slightly, twisting his torso left and right, feeling the shirt move like water over his skin.
He glanced down at himself again.
Jet black from collar to cuffs, just sharp enough to look formal, but simple enough to move around in. It made him feel sharper. More grounded.
Like someone who could actually pretend to be Vlad Romanov.
Yeah… this'll do.
Suddenly, intricate symbols burst into existence in front of him.
They appeared out of thin air–woven lines of golden light, just inches from his face. The symbols weren't chaotic or wild, but perfectly formed, their geometry almost divine. They shimmered with a faint, godlike glow.
Shou Nilski's breath hitched. He stumbled back instinctively, heart skipping a beat, and crashed down onto the bed, eyes locked on the glowing shapes hovering in the air.
What the hell!?
He sat there frozen for a second, chest heaving, eyes wide, but the symbols remained.
Then… something strange.
He blinked.
The moment his panic faded, understanding bloomed inside his mind. The symbols weren't just shapes, they were words.