"The last thing I remember... was the taste of iron." A voice, distant, slow, as if it belonged to someone who had lived and died far too many times.
Then—
BRAAAK!
Something slammed against the side of his head. Zachary dodged instinctively, ready to grab the hilt of his sword. Only to realize it was... a pink cat-shaped pillow.
"What sort of sorcery is this?!"
He shot up from the bed, drenched in sweat, chest heaving, scanning his surroundings like a general evaluating the battlefield. Colorful walls. Pink pillows scattered. A blanket that smelled faintly of lavender. And posters of... singing girls plastered crookedly on the walls.
"A child's chamber?"
He frowned. "No... wait. This… isn't Rome."
He should be smelling blood. He should be hearing the screams, seeing his brother's tear-streaked face as he counted down the final seconds before the blade met his neck.
He should be dead.
But this place… the air, the pressure, it was all wrong.
His gaze landed on a strange rectangular object lying on a desk, black, glassy, and glimmering faintly. Cautious, he approached, analyzing its shape, its material, the faint hum of energy.
It was cold to the touch, pulsing with a steady rhythm.
A power source? Some kind of relic?
He brushed a finger across it. The thing flickered, then lit up.
DING!
"WELCOME BACK, ZACH! :D"
He flinched back. "It reacts to touch? Hmph… not unlike the experimental devices in Alexandria…"
His eyes roamed again, studying the unfamiliar room, until he froze. The mirror in the corner reflected a stranger. That wasn't him. Not Zachary Valerius, the rebellious Count of Rome. The reflection was of a frail young man, messy black hair brushing his eyes, barely eighteen.
His mind raced.
He was Valerius, the Count of Rome. Every movement measured, every thought precise. And yet… this body, this boy, was Zachary Aldridge.
And within this new shell, fragments of another life stirred. Flickers of a classroom. Faces he didn't know but somehow recognized. The taste of milk in the morning. A woman shouting, "Hurry up and get ready!"
"So… I've transmigrated. But this body carries the memories of its former life."
That was the only conclusion that made sense, for now. But how did it happen?
No ritual. No curse. No divine bargain before the blade fell.
Then why was he here?
He turned back to the glowing rectangle. "Perhaps… an oracle of this era." He tapped one of the symbols. The light shifted, the image changed.
Fascinating. Reactive to touch, immediate feedback. Like deciphering a coded enchantment.
"Insta... grow?" he muttered, squinting at the screen. "I don't recognize the language of this age, yet… I can read it. Is this the memory of this body at work?"
He smirked. "A tool obedient to touch and command. Magic… but systematic."
The door burst open.
"Zach! What are you doing? It's six already! Your dad's gonna flip if you're late!"
A woman in her thirties stood there, hair messy, wearing a robe, exuding the terrifying aura of a modern mother.
Zach stiffened. "…Mother?"
"Who else?! Hurry up and stop saying weird stuff!"
The door slammed shut.
Zach blinked twice. Analysis complete: maternal authority figure, dominant type. Social hierarchy confirmed.
He rose to his feet. The body felt weak, fragile. After a moment's inspection, he opened the wardrobe. Clothes hung neatly. He picked up a pair of trousers:
Material: woven cotton.
Cut: tight but flexible.
Purpose: lower-body protection while allowing movement.
Technology: zippers, elastic bands.
He tried putting them on. Result: moderate struggle.
"In Rome, only peasants wrestled with their clothes like this. By Jupiter, how inconvenient."
Soon he was dressed in a school uniform, shirt tucked, tie straight, hair slicked back. He looked into the mirror again.
A boy of eighteen stared back, but inside beat the heart of a Roman noble.
"Count Zachary Valerius... executed for treason, now reborn in a land where glowing rectangles exist, and gods hide within boxes."
He brushed the collar of his shirt. "Strange... but acceptable."
---
Breakfast. The woman placed a bowl of white liquid with floating flakes in front of him.
"Milk... and cereal?"
"Yeah. Why? Don't wanna eat?" she asked, giving him that look.
Truly, the glare of a mother transcends time and civilization.
"Of course, I'll eat."
He stabbed the cereal with a spoon, watching it float. He measured its density, rate of sinking, and solubility before taking a bite.
Interesting. Acceptable. Digestion efficiency: moderate. Nutritional content: undetermined, but sufficient for survival.
---
On the way to school, Zachary observed the streets.
Carriages without horses, cars, rushed by, powered by unseen energy. People walked the sidewalks with glowing rectangles in their hands, faces blank.
"In my era, the world followed order.
Here, chaos masquerades as civilization."
Tall buildings pierced the sky, glass and steel reaching higher than any Roman temple.
He boarded a bus. No horses, no reins, just noise, smoke, and far too many people.
He frowned. Even here, there was disorder. Young men seated while elders stood. Advancement without courtesy. Progress without virtue.
So this was the so-called "modern world."
---
At the school gates stood a blond-haired boy leaning lazily against a post, grin wide.
Oliver Kent.
"Bro, why do you look like you're headed to a job interview?"
Zach analyzed him, height, posture, expression, intelligence.
Initial assessment: average intellect, high sociability, moderate ally potential.
"Because appearance reflects virtue."
"…Right. And I reflect not giving a damn."
Zach pondered for a moment. "Freedom through indifference... interesting.
Can inspire loyalty, or chaos. You're truly free, Oliver of Kent."
"It's just Oliver, man."
Whispers followed.
"Dude, why's Zach talking like our history teacher?"
"Yeah, he's acting weird lately."
Zach processed quickly. Attention diverted.
Social hierarchy remains intact. Humor can be used to manipulate perception.
"Mockery is the weapon of fools," he said evenly. "In Rome, we called it... politics."
Oliver burst out laughing, slinging an arm over his shoulder. "HAHA! Man, I like this new you. Keep talking like that, people'll think you're from another century!"
Zach looked at the sky.
"Perhaps... I am," he murmured.
He caught the stares of nearby students, curious, mocking, amused. And from the fragments of memory, he understood: the owner of this body... was the class outcast.
Bullied. Ignored. Weak.
---
Later, Zach roamed the school halls.
Vending machines, bright screens, unfamiliar mechanisms. Every object analyzed with precision. Sometimes, memories from the original Zachary Aldridge surfaced, locker combinations, classroom routes, meaningless chatter.
He catalogued it all, merging logic with memory.
"Useful. The body remembers... but the soul remains mine."
---
On his way home, he savored a new discovery: sweet, cold "ice cream." Modern food, he concluded, was superior in flavor if not nutrition.
Then, he stopped.
In a store window, dozens of glowing screens displayed the same face. A young man in a black suit, smiling confidently.
Felix Arden.
The nation's golden boy. Genius. Innovator. Idol.
"The future," Felix said to the camera, "is continuity. Civilization must learn from the past... and control it."
Zach's eyes narrowed. For a brief second, the man's golden eyes glinted, like Roman coins.
''Control it,' you say?" Zach murmured.
"Analysis: high threat potential. Preparation required."
He smiled faintly.
"In that case... perhaps our kingdoms aren't so different after all."