The opulent room, once a prison of confusion, now felt like a gilded cage for a mind stretched across two lifetimes. Akash, the six-year-old Baron's son with the crimson eyes, ran a trembling hand through his dark hair. The two hours he had allotted himself ticked away with merciless precision, each second a precious drop of time in which to calibrate his fractured reality. The initial shock of awakening his past life's memories, and simultaneously recalling the intricate details of this life, had begun to recede, leaving behind a profound and unsettling clarity.
He walked aimlessly around the room, the plush rug muffling his small footsteps. His gaze, accustomed to dissecting complex medical images, now scanned the unfamiliar tapestries and antique furniture, trying to piece together the narrative of his existence. He was Akash Waker, the cardiac surgeon from 21st-century India. And he was Akash, the child of Baron Von Valerius, in this fantastical realm. The merger of these identities was complete, raw, and utterly disorienting.
He found himself standing before the large, ornate window, pulling back a heavy velvet drape. Outside, the morning sun, still pale, illuminated manicured gardens and distant, ancient trees. It was a world of serene beauty, yet his mind was a whirlwind of contrasting realities.
His thoughts, once his own, now seemed to ripple through layers of experience. He thought of the life he'd left behind, or perhaps, the life that had been appended to his very being. He, Akash Waker, had been born into a family that, while not impoverished, certainly didn't know the opulence of velvet drapes and gilded furniture. He remembered the small, bustling apartment in Mumbai, the vibrant, ever-present symphony of the city—the distant honk of taxis, the clatter of street vendors, the pervasive scent of spices and exhaust fumes that always clung to the air. His father, a kind, quiet man, had been an accountant, his days a methodical dance of numbers and ledgers. He had battled cancer for years, a slow, relentless siege on his body that Akash, even as a young boy, had observed with an almost preternatural understanding of its insidious progression. He had been fascinated by the doctors who came and went, their crisp white coats symbols of hope and knowledge, their pronouncements carrying the weight of destiny. He remembered his father's weakening smile, the gradual dimming of the light in his eyes, the final, peaceful surrender. He had died when Akash was just fifteen, leaving a void that never truly filled, a silence in their small home that was almost unbearable.
And his mother. Her health had always been a concern, fragile from birth, a subtle cardiac murmur that Akash would later understand clinically, but which even then, had instilled in him a quiet anxiety. After his father's passing, her already delicate constitution deteriorated rapidly. Yet, she had been a formidable force of nature, pouring her remaining strength, her very essence, into him, into ensuring his future. "Your mind, Akash," she would say, her voice soft, but firm, her eyes bright with unyielding resolve, "is your greatest asset. Use it. Make us proud." They were poor, by the standards of his future profession, living paycheck to meager paycheck, but they had been rich in love and unwavering support. He remembered late nights, his mother hunched over their small kitchen table, the light of a single lamp illuminating her meticulous calculations, ensuring he had textbooks, a good uniform, access to what little extra tutoring he could get. Their foresight, born of profound love and quiet desperation, became his bedrock. He had become a doctor through sheer force of will, fueled by their sacrifices, propelled forward by numerous scholarships that eased the financial burden but never the emotional debt. He had built his life on that foundation, a life dedicated to healing, to fighting against the very diseases that had claimed his parents. He had become a man driven by purpose, by a profound understanding of life's inherent fragility and the immeasurable preciousness of every single heartbeat.
Now, in this bewildering new existence, he had lost his parents again. The Baron and Baroness, this body's true mother and father, had been loving, if somewhat distant, figures in the tapestry of memories that were now his. The landslide, abrupt and brutal, had stolen them away just as he, Akash Waker, had died in his previous life. A fresh wave of sadness washed over him, a complicated grief that was both his own sorrow and a profound, empathetic ache for the boy whose life he had seamlessly inherited. He hadn't truly mourned the Baron and Baroness before, his mind too consumed with his own impossible situation. But now, with the memories fully unlocked, their kind faces, their gentle voices, the comforting feel of their hands, were vivid and real. And the loss, a double bereavement, was palpable, heavy in his small chest.
His gaze drifted to a shelf laden with beautifully bound books, antique volumes whose titles he couldn't read from this distance. How different this library was from the sterile, fluorescent-lit shelves of medical journals he was used to. He found himself pacing the room again, his small, uncoordinated steps a stark contrast to the purposeful strides he once made down hospital corridors. His thoughts, naturally, drifted to The Celestial Physician. He had started reading it years ago, a random recommendation on a web novel site. It had been a distraction, a brief escape from the relentless demands of his surgical residency, a mind-numbing activity to prevent burnout. He'd initially been drawn to the premise: a modern doctor reincarnated into a fantasy world. He'd hoped for some interesting parallels, a unique exploration of medical ethics in a magical setting, perhaps even some clever use of scientific principles against mystical ailments.
But as he had continued reading, his initial interest had curdled into profound distaste. The protagonist, a doctor like him, had been... disappointing. Appallingly so. The main character (MC) used his medical knowledge primarily for power and personal gain, distorting the very essence of the profession. He wasn't a healer; he was a weapon, wrapped in a veneer of medical expertise. He became increasingly ruthless, employing his superior understanding of anatomy, physiology, and pharmacology to incapacitate or control his enemies with brutal efficiency, often bordering on outright torture. His focus was solely on dominating others, on accumulating influence and authority without any apparent moral compass.
And then there was the rampant objectification. He was only focused on every woman he saw, Akash thought, the words feeling alien and deeply uncomfortable echoing in his child's high-pitched voice. The MC's interactions with female characters were shallow, transactional, always leading to them becoming enamored with him, serving his needs. Their personalities, their intelligence, their struggles, were secondary to their physical attributes. It sickened Akash. As a doctor, he had viewed every person, regardless of gender, as a complex biological entity, a life to be preserved, a patient deserving of unwavering respect and dignity. He saw the suffering inherent in every individual, the shared human condition, the inherent vulnerability that demanded compassion. The MC's casual disregard for human value, his strategic application of medical knowledge not for healing but for effective power control, for subjugation, was fundamentally antithetical to everything Akash believed, to every oath he had ever sworn. It was a profound betrayal of the trust inherent in the doctor-patient relationship, a perversion of the very purpose of medicine.
He had stopped reading the novel around chapter 210, unable to stomach the MC's escalating arrogance and moral bankruptcy. He found no entertainment, no relatable similarities. The world of the novel, as depicted, was deeply, irrevocably corrupted. Everyone is corrupted and kills anyone they want, he thought, recalling the casual violence, the political assassinations, the societal stratification where life was cheap and power absolute. It was a bleak, amoral landscape, a world he had actively tried to avoid immersing himself in even as a fictional escape.
So why was he here? Why had he, the surgeon who believed in saving lives, in the sanctity of human dignity, been thrust into a story he despised, into a world so fundamentally opposed to his core values? Was this some cosmic joke? A penance for some unknown transgression?
He paced faster, a frantic energy building in his small frame, a subconscious manifestation of the profound existential questions swirling in his mind. Did that guy die and I reincarnated? Or did I just unlock his memories? The difference, to his ethical framework, was crucial. As a medical professional, he understood the concept of informed consent and the inherent value of an individual's autonomy and existence. If he had somehow taken this child's life, supplanted his soul for his own convenience, it would be an intolerable burden, a violation more profound than any medical error, a wound that would never heal. He had a hundred questions, each one breeding another. The ambiguity was intolerable. As a medical professional, clarity and accurate diagnosis are paramount. This existential uncertainty is… antithetical to my very nature. My analytical mind demands data, empirical evidence, a definitive conclusion.
He had read enough of these web novels to know the tropes. Reincarnated protagonists often came with a "system," a ubiquitous, almost omnipotent guide, a digital companion that answered questions and conferred abilities. Absurd, of course, a fantastical construct, but if reincarnation itself was real, then…
"System?" he tried, a tentative whisper, the word feeling utterly alien on his tongue. Nothing. The room remained silent, draped in its opulent stillness. He felt a ridiculous flush creep up his neck. He was a man of science, a surgeon who prided himself on hard facts and demonstrable results, calling out to an imaginary voice in a magical world. It was insane. Perhaps the trauma has finally broken my mind beyond repair. A fitting end for a cardiac surgeon, I suppose, to lose his sanity in a room of velvet.
"Hello? System?" he repeated, a little louder, his voice cracking slightly.
Silence. The rich, quiet room offered no reply. He slumped onto the edge of the bed, feeling foolish, feeling a profound sense of isolation. So, no system. Just him. A grown man trapped in a child's body, with only the memories of two disparate lives and a pair of unsettling red eyes. He was going to have to navigate this impossible situation alone. A profound sense of disappointment settled over him. Just when I thought I was going to believe I don't get any…
Suddenly, a voice, crystalline and ethereal, yet unmistakably mechanical, echoed not in the room, but directly within his mind. It was cold, precise, devoid of warmth or inflection, cutting through the silence of his thoughts like a laser, a diagnostic chime in the most unexpected of places.
"Welcome, Host. Congratulations on awakening your past life memory."
Akash jolted, a startled yelp escaping his lips, a truly undignified sound for a man of his former gravitas. He spun around, searching the empty room, his crimson eyes wide. Nothing. The voice was undeniably internal, a direct transmission to his consciousness, like an urgent page in his brain, impossible to ignore. He clutched his head again, not in pain, but in sheer, monumental disbelief.
"What was that?" he whispered, his breath catching in his throat.
The system remained silent, as if having delivered its pronouncement and then gone dormant, its brief, chilling statement hanging in the air of his mind like a critical lab result, a definitive diagnosis delivered in an instant. But the mere utterance was enough.
"Awakening your past life memory," he repeated, the words rolling off his tongue like a foreign language, yet imbued with immense significance. The system's prompt, its brief, declarative sentence, provided the crucial piece of the puzzle, the definitive diagnosis his logical mind desperately needed to confirm.
This meant he hadn't taken anyone's place. He hadn't displaced the original Akash's soul, hadn't usurped his life. He had simply recalled his own previous existence. The body was still the young Baron's son. The initial consciousness, the boy's memories and experiences, were still intact, seamlessly integrated with his own. He hadn't committed an existential form of medical malpractice, hadn't replaced a life for his convenience. This was not a re-write, but an addition, a complex layering of identities.
That was a good enough answer for him. A profound relief, like the cessation of an intractable arrhythmia, washed over him, momentarily eclipsing the fear and uncertainty. He, Akash Waker, a professional dedicated to preserving life, could not have borne the crushing burden of having extinguished another for his own survival. This was not a soul transfer, but a memory reintegration. It was a distinction that, in his warped reality, mattered more than anything else, allowing him to breathe a little easier, to face this new world without the debilitating weight of an unforgivable ethical transgression.
He was still himself. Just more. Vastly, impossibly more.
His new reality solidified. He was here. He had a younger sister to protect, a delicate blossom in a garden of thorns, a vulnerability that now resonated with a fierce, deep-seated drive. A corrupt world to navigate, one where his unique knowledge would be either a blessing or a curse, depending on how he chose to wield it. And a system that, while brief, confirmed the impossible, a technological anomaly in a world of magic that he now knew was fundamentally real. He straightened his small shoulders, a subtle shift that belied the monumental change within him. The surgeon in him, the one who thrived on complex challenges and high stakes, the one who had spent a lifetime in pursuit of solutions, began to stir, a familiar, welcome sensation of purpose. The chaos of his current circumstances was simply another intricate problem to solve, another life, or lives, to save, another complex case study. He just needed to understand the mechanics of this particular operating theater.
The two hours were almost up. It was time to face Lord Cedric.