For a long moment, Justin, now trapped in the body of a boy named Robin did nothing. He just stared at the pathetic, ghost-like face in the cloudy mirror.
His mind, the mind of a legendary commander, tried to process the information. It was like trying to fit a giant warhorse into a tiny birdcage. It just didn't work.
He finally pushed himself away from the mirror. He needed to assess the situation. That's what a commander did. You don't panic. You don't cry. You figure out what you have, what you don't have, and you make a plan.
Assessment, Step One: The Body.
He held up his right arm and looked at it. It was a pale, thin stick. There was almost no muscle on it at all. He could see the faint blue lines of his veins through the thin skin.
My old biceps were bigger than this kid's entire leg, he thought with a grim sense of humor.
He tried to make a fist. His fingers curled inward, but there was no strength behind it. It was like closing a hand made of soft clay. He tried to flex a muscle in his arm. Nothing happened. He wasn't even sure there was a muscle there to flex.
He took a deep breath to calm himself, but his lungs felt tiny and weak. The breath came out in a shallow, wheezing sound.
WHHEEEZE.
It sounded like a rusty gate opening. He felt a constant, dull ache in his chest, as if his own body was too tired to keep living.
This was his new reality. He was trapped in a body that felt like it was made of glass and old twigs. It was a prison of flesh and bone.
Assessment, Step Two: The Mana Core.
As a warrior in his past life, Justin had been able to feel mana. It was all around, like a constant, low humming sound that most people never noticed.
In strong warriors, you could feel their mana core like a warm bonfire. In mages, it was like a roaring furnace. His own core had been a steady, reliable flame, not flashy but strong and enduring.
He closed his eyes and focused inward, trying to find the mana core in this new body. He searched for the familiar warmth in his chest. He found it, but it was not a flame. It wasn't even a candle.
It was a pathetic, sputtering ember.
It was like a single, sad little spark at the bottom of a wet fire pit. Every few seconds, it would give a weak little fizzle and almost go out. He could feel it struggling just to exist.
The servant's sneer about F-minus rank wasn't an exaggeration. It was probably generous.
He tried to draw on it, to pull some of that energy into his hand like he used to do. It was like trying to suck a frozen milkshake through a tiny coffee straw. He concentrated with all his might, his face turning red with effort.
poof.
He felt a tiny speck of warmth, no bigger than a pinprick, appear in his palm for a fraction of a second before vanishing. The effort left him dizzy and out of breath. He had to lean against the wall, his head spinning.
"Well," he muttered to himself, his voice a weak whisper. "That was just sad."
Assessment, Step Three: The Enemy.
His enemy wasn't the beasts in the forest anymore. His enemy was House of Tregor. His enemy was the Duke, his own so-called father. And his enemy was this prison of a body. He remembered the whispers he had heard about Robin Tregor in his past life.
"The Cursed Child," one guard had said to another years ago. "Born on the very day of the Great Northern Breach."
"They say the boy is a walking symbol of misfortune," the other had replied. "Weak and sickly from birth. The Duke can't even stand to look at him."
Then, a few years later, he'd heard the follow-up. "Did you hear? The third son, Robin, finally passed. A mysterious illness, they called it." The guard had shrugged. "More like a blessing for the family, if you ask me."
Justin looked around the dusty, forgotten room. He looked at the bowl of watery grey gruel on the table. It was barely food. He felt the profound weakness in his bones, the pathetic fizzle of his mana core.
It all made a horrible kind of sense. There was no "mysterious illness." Robin Tregor wasn't dying of some rare disease. He was dying of neglect.
He was being killed slowly, day by day, by a complete lack of care. No proper food, no sunlight, no training, no love. Just endless days locked in a dusty room with no hope.
The "illness" was despair. The Duke hadn't needed a dagger to kill this son; he had just needed to forget he existed.
The scorn from the servant wasn't personal hatred. It was worse. It was the entire household's attitude. To them, Robin Tregor was not a person. He was an inconvenience. A stain on the family name that they were all just waiting to fade away.
This frail body was his new reality. His new cage.
But inside this cage, the mind of Commander Justin was not weak. It was not sputtering. It was a raging flame. The memory of the betrayal was still fresh, still burning hot.
He could still feel the phantom pain of Gregor's dagger in his back. He could still see the cold, uncaring faces of his men as the monsters dragged him into the abyss.
BOOM!
The memory hit him like a physical blow. His anger was a living thing inside him, a hot ball of fury in his weak chest. They had taken his life. They had taken his honor. They had thrown him away like garbage. And this poor boy, this Robin, had been their victim long before Justin ever was.
He pushed himself off the wall. His legs trembled, but he forced them to hold his weight. He walked over to the window and looked out. He could see a corner of the castle's training yard.
He saw young boys, some even younger than this body, sparring with wooden swords. They were healthy, strong, and full of life. They were the sons of guards and stable hands, and they were a hundred times better off than the Duke's own child.
This wasn't just about getting revenge on the Duke anymore. That was too simple. This was about tearing down this entire rotten family from the inside out.
This was about taking everything from the man who had taken everything from him.
He looked back at his reflection in the mirror. The face was still the face of a weak, scared boy. But the eyes were different now. The fear was gone. In its place was a cold, hard fire. It was the look of a commander who had just identified his target.
This body was a prison. But every prison has a weakness. Every wall can be broken down.
"Alright, Robin," he whispered to the face in the mirror, the name feeling strange and foreign on his tongue. "The assessment is complete.
The situation is terrible. Our assets are a genius military mind and a mysterious magic system. Our liabilities are… well, everything else."
He allowed himself a small, bitter smile.
"Time to make a plan."