When Othmar opened his eyes, the first thing he felt was confusion.
A soft bed supported his body. The room around him was large, quiet, and strangely unfamiliar. He blinked several times before muttering, his voice weak and confused—
But something was wrong.
The voice that came out wasn't his.
It sounded young. Too young.
And it wasn't German.
"Uh…? What… where am I?" he murmured. "My head… it hurts."
He raised his hands into his line of sight.
At first, his vision was blurry. But as it slowly focused, he froze.
His hands were clean.
No dirt.
No blood.
No military uniform.
In fact, he wasn't wearing a soldier's uniform at all. Instead, he was dressed in a loose shirt and simple shorts.
Frowning, Othmar sat up—and that was when he truly saw the room.
It looked… medieval.
A wooden wardrobe stood slightly to the left.
A window revealed open fields and distant houses, bathed in morning light.
A rug lay neatly on the floor.
A bookshelf rested near the window.
And across the room—
A mirror.
The ceiling was solid and well-crafted, nothing like the ruins of war he remembered.
He swallowed.
"Hm… maybe that will help," he muttered instinctively.
Stepping out of bed, his bare feet touched the cold wooden floor. That sensation alone made his heart race.
Slowly, cautiously, he walked toward the mirror.
When the light reflected into his eyes, reality struck him like a hammer.
The person staring back at him—
Was not Othmar Bollmann.
It was a young boy.
Blond hair.
Clear blue eyes.
Fair skin.
A slim yet slightly defined body.
Hair a bit long.
A white medieval-style shirt and brown shorts.
Beautiful. Healthy.
Young.
"B–But…!" he gasped. "What is this?!"
Shock overtook him.
He touched his face. Blinked repeatedly. Pinched himself.
This wasn't a dream.
His voice—when he spoke again—was unmistakably that of a teenager.
His breathing grew erratic.
Too much was happening. Too fast. None of it made sense.
He paced the room, hands gripping his head as he tried to calm himself.
"Is this… real?" he whispered. "If it is… then why am I not in heaven? Why am I inside the body of a boy?"
He stared down at his clean hands.
And then the memories came rushing back.
The war.
The screams.
The blood.
The bodies.
His chest tightened.
He took deep breaths, forcing himself to stay grounded.
Hours passed before he gathered enough courage to face the mirror again.
"…Alright," he said quietly. "This is real. And it's ironic, isn't it?"
He let out a dry, nervous laugh.
"A soldier who grew up hearing about a 'perfect race'… now reborn into a body that fits that very image."
The sound of movement outside the room broke his thoughts.
Footsteps. Voices.
Heart pounding, he approached the door and placed his hand on the handle.
"…Alright," he muttered. "Let's do this."
He opened it.
A medieval hallway stretched before him.
Turning right, he saw a large open space, staircases, doors, and corridors branching off.
Before he could react—
Something soft pressed against his back.
Arms wrapped around him.
A warm, athletic body.
A woman's chest against his neck.
A cheerful female voice spoke behind him:
"Good morning, champ! Ready for another day?"
He looked up.
A woman in her twenties—maybe early thirties—stood there, smiling brightly.
Long red hair.
Red eyes.
A sleeveless brown leather top.
Brown pants.
A strong, confident build.
Othmar's face instantly turned red.
Beautiful.
Too beautiful.
And worse—
His body reacted before his mind could.
The woman laughed softly and patted his head.
"Alright, Mommy has a lot to do today," she said casually. "Why don't you go outside and play for a bit? Or, if you want to train with me, we can do that too."
Her eyes sparkled with challenge.
Before he could answer, a calm male voice joined in:
"Oh? So the kid is already awake?"
A tall man stepped forward.
Long blond hair.
Golden eyes.
Well-defined arms beneath his clothes.
A relaxed, confident smile.
Without warning, the woman smacked the boy lightly on the head, then pulled the man close and kissed him.
Othmar stood there, completely stunned.
Then it clicked.
Blond hair.
Same features.
Same house.
…Parents.
That couple—were his parents.
The man turned toward him and spoke casually:
"Raul. Kid. If I were you, I'd head outside. There's way more interesting stuff out there than standing around here."
Then, holding the woman by the chin, he smirked.
"Iris, my dear, I'll be heading to a nearby village for some… business. Would be a shame to go slay monsters in a dungeon and leave our beloved son alone, wouldn't it?"
She bit his finger playfully.
"Of course, my love. Yuchiro. I'll make sure he's perfectly fine."
They kissed again—far longer this time.
Almost deliberately.
Othmar didn't understand why the man was doing that… but the trauma of his past life still lingered, clouding his thoughts.
Soon after, Yuchiro left the house and climbed onto a carriage, where a chubby man with a mustache waited.
"So?" the man asked. "Ready to go?"
"Yes. Let's move," Yuchiro replied.
The horse was whipped forward, and the carriage disappeared down the road.
As Othmar watched from outside, a hand touched his shoulder.
His mother—Iris.
"Well," she said cheerfully, "your father's gone to work. How about mother and son do some training together, hm? Dear Raul?"
Raul.
That name echoed in his mind.
So that's it… this body's name is Raul.
Nervously, he replied with his young voice:
"Uh… y-yeah, Mom. But… could I rest a bit first? Maybe eat something?"
She laughed and tapped his head.
"Hah! Fine. But don't end up weak like your father used to be—ah, forget it. Either way, you'll still train with me later, you lazy brat."
She walked off, likely preparing training equipment.
Then—
Pain.
A crushing sensation hit his chest.
His heart raced violently. He clutched his chest and collapsed to the floor.
Memories flooded his mind.
The battlefield.
German flags.
Executions.
The dictator's speeches.
Blood-stained hands.
Fear paralyzed him.
Then—
A gentle voice.
"Sir? Are you alright? And… are you Raul?"
The illusion shattered.
He looked up.
A woman dressed as a maid stood before him. She wore glasses and carried a small suitcase.
Trembling, he tried to stand.
"Y-Yes… I think so. And yes, I'm Raul."
She glanced around the house calmly.
"I noticed the door was open. May I ask where your parents are?"
Taking a deep breath, Raul answered carefully:
"M-My father went out for work. My mother is… training."
The maid sighed lightly.
"I see. She told me you'd be eating something, so I was asked to prepare food for you."
She walked past him toward the kitchen.
"I'll prepare a meal. My cooking skills are quite good."
As she searched the cabinets, Raul followed, still shaking.
"Oh," she added casually, "I forgot to introduce myself. My name is Groeyas—but you can call me Grey."
Hearing that name, Raul finally exhaled.
His breathing was still uneven.
But for the first time—
He felt slightly grounded.