Pain.
That was the first thing Asher felt when consciousness slammed back into him like a freight train. His head felt like someone had cracked it open with a hammer, put it back together wrong, and then hit it again for good measure.
He groaned and immediately regretted it. Even the sound of his own voice made his skull throb.
*Where the hell am I?*
Slowly, carefully, he cracked one eye open. Then the other.
Stone ceiling. Thick wooden beams running across it. Definitely not Chicago. Definitely not Marcetti's penthouse. And definitely not heaven or hell or whatever came after death.
The air smelled... different. Clean, but with hints of something herbal. Like a library mixed with a garden. Nothing like the city smell of exhaust and garbage he was used to.
Asher tried to sit up and his entire body screamed in protest. Every muscle ached. Every nerve felt raw. It was like the worst hangover of his life multiplied by ten.
"Okay," he muttered to himself. "Take it slow. Assess the situation."
That was con artist rule number one: always know where you are and who's watching.
He was lying in a bed. A real bed with actual sheets that felt expensive. Not hospital scratchy, but smooth and comfortable. The kind of sheets that cost more than most people's rent.
Around him, the room was... weird.
Stone walls, like he was in some kind of castle. A window to his left showed morning sunlight streaming in. To his right, shelves. Lots of shelves. Books everywhere. And not just books – bottles filled with glowing liquids. Actual glowing liquids in blues and greens and one that shifted colors like oil on water.
"What the..."
On a desk sat what looked like scientific equipment, except nothing he recognized. Glass tubes connected to brass mechanisms. A device that looked like a cross between a compass and a clock, except it had way too many hands and they were all moving at different speeds.
Against the far wall leaned a staff. A wooden staff covered in symbols that seemed to shimmer when he looked at them directly.
*Magic. The Watcher said magic was real here.*
The memories hit him then. The white void. The being he couldn't see. The deal. Seven lives, and this was his last one. A world called Valdris where magic actually existed.
"Holy shit. It was all real."
Asher swung his legs out of bed, fighting through the pain. His body felt wrong. Not bad wrong, just... different. Taller maybe? He stood up on shaky legs and immediately noticed he was definitely taller than before. And leaner. His old body had been average height, average build. This felt like someone had stretched him out and rebuilt him from scratch.
He needed to see what he looked like.
Stumbling across the room like a drunk, he spotted a full-length mirror hanging on the wall near the window. He made his way over, gripping furniture for support, and finally looked at his reflection.
"Holy shit."
The face staring back at him was nothing like his old one. Nothing at all.
Silver hair fell past his shoulders in waves, catching the morning light like liquid metal. Not gray like an old man. Silver. Bright, shimmering silver that looked almost unnatural.
His eyes matched. Silver eyes that seemed to glow faintly with their own inner light. They were striking, almost hypnotic. The kind of eyes that would make people stop and stare.
The face itself was sharp and aristocratic. High cheekbones, strong jawline, the kind of features that belonged on a movie star or a model. He looked like he'd walked out of some fantasy video game as the main character.
And he was tall. At least six-two, maybe six-three. Lean muscle showed through the white shirt he was wearing. Not bulky, but definitely fit. The kind of build that said "I work out but I'm not trying to be a bodybuilder."
"Damn," Asher whispered, running a hand through the silver hair. It felt real. Soft and thick. "The original me was gorgeous."
He turned his face from side to side, examining his new appearance from different angles. This was going to take some getting used to. In his old life, he'd been decent looking enough to run cons, but nothing special. Average guy you'd forget five minutes after meeting him.
This? This was memorable. This was the kind of face people would remember.
Which could be good or bad depending on the situation.
He looked down at his hands. Long fingers, elegant. Faint scars across the palms that looked like they came from holding something hot or sharp repeatedly. His memories – well, the ones that were his – didn't explain those scars.
But there were other memories now, weren't there?
As if thinking about it triggered something, information started flooding into his brain. Not his memories. Someone else's. The original owner of this body.
*Professor Asher Kane.*
The name came with images. Flashes of places and faces he'd never seen but somehow knew.
*Twenty-one years old. Youngest professor at the Royal Academy of Mystic Arts. Adopted son of Duke Aldric Kane, one of the most powerful nobles in the Kingdom of Valdris. Graduated from the Academy at age sixteen. Became a professor at age twenty.*
More memories surfaced. Classrooms and students. Other professors who looked at him with either respect or jealousy. A massive manor house with guards at the gates. Formal dinners with people in expensive clothes discussing politics.
And something else. Something darker and more secretive.
*The Order. A mysterious organization operating in the shadows. Codename: The Blind.*
Asher grabbed the edge of the desk to steady himself as the memories crashed over him like waves. They felt foreign, like watching someone else's home movies. He could see the events but he couldn't feel them. They weren't really his.
But underneath those borrowed memories, his own remained crystal clear. Chicago. Don Marcetti. The FBI. Danny rotting in a prison cell somewhere. The wire taped to his chest. The cold barrel of a gun against his head.
Six lifetimes of being a con artist, all leading to that final moment.
And now he was here. In a body that could actually do magic. In a world that ran on rules he didn't understand yet.
"Okay," he said out loud, needing to hear his own voice to ground himself. "Okay. Let's think this through."
He sat down on the edge of the bed and tried to organize the chaos in his head.
First: he was now Professor Asher Kane. Twenty-one years old, which was weird because he'd been twenty-one when he died too. Youngest professor at some magic academy. That would make him a prodigy, which meant people had high expectations.
Second: he was the adopted son of a Duke. That meant nobility. Politics. Money and power. The kind of world where one wrong move could get you killed, just like the mafia back home.
Third: he was part of some secret organization called The Order. They used codenames and operated in shadows, which meant they were either spies, assassins, or some combination of the two. And his codename was "The Blind."
"Triple identity," Asher muttered. "Professor, Duke's son, secret agent. Great. Just great."
He'd run plenty of cons where he had to juggle multiple identities, but this was on a whole different level. One slip up and any of these three roles could get him killed.
Fourth, and most important: magic was real here.
Asher stood up and walked over to the shelves, examining the strange objects more closely. Books with titles like "Advanced Theoretical Thaumaturgy" and "Principles of Elemental Manipulation." Some were in languages he couldn't read but somehow knew were ancient magical texts worth a fortune.
The glowing bottles had labels in careful handwriting: "Essence of Nightshade," "Distilled Moonbeam," "Crystallized Lightning."
He picked up one of the bottles – a small vial filled with blue liquid that pulsed with its own light. The moment his fingers touched it, he felt something. A tingle of energy, like static electricity but warmer.
"So I can sense magic," he said, carefully setting the vial back down. "That's something."
His eyes went to the staff leaning against the wall. The black wood was covered in silver runes that seemed to shift and move when he wasn't looking directly at them. Just being near it made his skin prickle with barely contained energy.
Asher reached out slowly and wrapped his fingers around the staff.
Power surged through him.
Not painful, but intense. Like grabbing a live wire that felt good instead of bad. The runes along the staff's length flared bright silver, responding to his touch. Energy coursed up his arm and through his entire body.
He gasped and almost dropped it, but managed to hold on. The power settled after a moment, becoming a steady hum instead of a surge.
"Okay," he breathed. "Okay, so I can definitely use magic. The body can do it even if I don't know how yet."
That was crucial information. The Watcher had said the body he was getting could perform magic. Apparently that was true. The circuits or whatever made magic work were there. He just needed to figure out how to drive them.
Like learning to drive a car. The car had an engine and wheels. He just needed to learn where the gas pedal was.
Asher set the staff back carefully and turned his attention to the rest of the room. This wasn't just a bedroom. It was a workspace. A wizard's workshop, he supposed.
More books covered every surface. Scrolls were stacked on a second desk. A chalkboard on one wall had complex diagrams and equations written in that same careful handwriting. His handwriting now, he supposed.
There was something else too. Something that caught his attention because it felt out of place.
Mechanical devices. Brass and copper mechanisms sitting next to magical artifacts. A clockwork something that looked like a mix between a watch and an astrolabe. A device with multiple lenses and mirrors that might be some kind of telescope.
Technology mixed with magic. Steampunk meets wizardry.
"Interesting," Asher murmured.
He was starting to get a picture of this world. Not medieval fantasy with swords and horses. More advanced than that. Magic and machines working together somehow.
A memory surfaced from the original Asher's mind. Steam-powered carriages with magical cores. Factories where enchanted machinery did the work. Airships that flew using both steam engines and levitation spells.
"Magitech," he said, remembering the term from video games. "This world has magitech."
That actually worked in his favor. If the world had technology, he had a baseline to understand it. Even if the technology was powered by magic instead of electricity, the basic principles might be similar.
Asher walked back to the mirror and studied his reflection again. Silver hair, silver eyes, aristocratic features. He looked the part of a powerful young wizard. That was good. Appearance mattered in cons. Looking confident and capable was half the battle.
But there was something else in those silver eyes that he recognized. The same sharp, calculating look he'd worn in six different lifetimes. The look of someone always thinking three steps ahead. Always looking for angles and opportunities.
The Watcher had been right. The body was different but the mind was the same. Asher Kane the con artist was still in there, just wearing a much prettier package.
He grinned at his reflection. If he had to fake being a magical genius, at least he looked the part.
Then something else caught his attention. A flicker in his peripheral vision, like movement in the mirror that didn't match reality.
Asher spun around, but the room was empty. Just shadows from the morning light.
He turned back to the mirror. Everything looked normal.
Except... for just a moment, he could have sworn his reflection had smiled before he did.
"Great," he muttered. "Magic mirrors. That's not creepy at all."
He shook off the unease and focused on more immediate problems. Like the fact that he had no idea how to actually do magic beyond touching things and feeling tingly.
Asher walked to the desk where he'd seen the lesson plan earlier. If he was going to fake being a professor, he needed to understand what he was supposed to teach.
But before he could start reading, a knock on the door made him jump.
"Professor Kane? Are you awake, sir?"
The voice was young, male, and spoke with an accent that sounded vaguely British but not quite. Cultured. Educated. The kind of voice that came from expensive private schools and noble breeding.
Asher took a deep breath, straightened his posture, and let his face settle into a calm, confident expression. Showtime.
"Come in," he called out.
The door opened and a young man stepped inside. Maybe nineteen or twenty, with perfectly styled blonde hair and clothes that probably cost more than most people made in a month. He had the kind of confident posture that came from never doubting your place in the world.
The borrowed memories immediately supplied information.
*Marcus Whitmore. Son of Duke Whitmore, one of the most powerful noble families in the kingdom. Teaching assistant for Advanced Magical Theory. Ambitious, intelligent, and politically connected to the Royalist faction.*
"Good morning, Professor," Marcus said with a respectful bow. "I hope you're feeling better. You missed dinner last night, and several people were concerned."
Right. The original Asher had apparently been sick or unconscious yesterday. That would explain why no one had come looking for him yet. And why his head felt like it had been split open.
"Much better, thank you Marcus." Asher's voice came out smooth and confident, which was good. He'd always been good at sounding in control even when he had no idea what was going on. "Just a touch of magical exhaustion. Nothing serious."
Marcus's eyes flickered over him, and Asher could practically see the young man's brain working. Analyzing. Evaluating.
"I'm glad to hear it, sir." Marcus glanced around the cluttered room with barely concealed worry. "I hate to rush you, but your Advanced Theory lecture begins in thirty minutes. The third-year students are quite excited – it's the first class of the new term."
Asher's stomach dropped straight through the floor.
Thirty minutes.
Thirty minutes to figure out how to teach a university-level magic class when he didn't know the first thing about actual spellcasting.
But he'd been in worse spots before. The key to any good con was confidence and quick thinking. He'd figure it out. He always did.
"Of course," he said, moving toward the wardrobe in the corner. "The new curriculum."
That was a safe statement. Vague but implied knowledge.
Marcus looked slightly puzzled. "Sir? We haven't discussed curriculum changes. Your syllabus from last term was quite comprehensive."
Shit. Wrong approach.
"I meant my internal revisions," Asher recovered smoothly. "I've been reconsidering some teaching methods during my recovery. Sometimes a fresh perspective makes all the difference."
Marcus nodded slowly, though he still looked uncertain. "Of course, sir. Should I prepare the lecture hall as usual?"
"Please do. I'll be there shortly."
Marcus bowed again and left, closing the door behind him.
The moment he was gone, Asher let out a long breath and slumped against the wardrobe.
"Okay. Okay. I have thirty minutes to figure out how to teach magic when I can barely make a light spark."
But even as panic tried to set in, another part of his brain – the part that had survived six lifetimes of impossible cons – kicked into gear.
He didn't need to be an expert. He just needed to look like one.
And looking like something you're not? That was his specialty.
Asher opened the wardrobe and found what he needed. Black robes with silver embroidery that matched his hair and eyes. Very dramatic. Very wizard-looking.
He pulled them on, adjusted them in the mirror, and picked up the staff. The silver runes flared to life again at his touch.
Looking at his reflection one more time, he saw exactly what he needed to see.
A powerful young professor. Silver hair, silver eyes, elegant robes, and a staff that hummed with barely contained power.
He looked like someone who knew exactly what he was doing.
Now he just had to convince everyone else.
"Fake it till you make it," Asher told his reflection. "It worked for six lifetimes. It'll work for this one too."
He turned toward the door, staff in hand, ready for his first performance in this new world.
Time to see if the greatest con artist in seven lifetimes could pull off being a magic professor.
The game was on.