Jogi came up from darkness. His throat burned. His tongue tasted of bile and cheap liquor.
He drew in air, and it scratched on the way down. When he opened his eyes, he went still.
The bed was not his. The room was not his. Thick curtains hung in gaudy folds, heavy enough to smother daylight.
A chandelier sprawled above him like a jeweled spider, all glass and gold. Even the air smelled perfumed and clean.
His head throbbed. Not just pain. Pressure. As if someone had wedged a second skull inside his own and it was trying to hatch.
Then the memories hit. Joji, a name strikingly similar to his.
Sword drills. The weight of a blade that belonged to hands younger than his.
A father laughing, heroic and loud. A mother correcting his stance with a touch that felt like home.
A mansion's layout unfolding in his mind, corridors and courtyards and stairwells, too vast for a few men to live in and too familiar to deny.
Jogi swallowed, and the room tilted a little. He breathed in and out until the tilt slowed.
He pushed himself upright. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, and his feet found a floor that was cold and polished smooth.
A mirror stood near the wardrobe. He stared at it as if it might bite him. The face looking back was strikingly familiar.
His face, only younger. No wrinkly lines near the eyes. His hair. Still shaved clean.
Jogi yanked off his shirt and stared. His torso was sculpted. He traced the muscle with his hands, admiring the shape.
Then a sharp panic hit Jogi, sudden and stupid. He shoved his pants down and leaned in to inspect it up close.
His junior came into view. He exhaled hard, relief mixing with disbelief.
"Still big in here." He swept the room again. "But nah, where is this? Where am I at?"
The question sounded ridiculous the moment it left his mouth. The room did not answer. The chandelier only glittered.
He hauled his pants back up and crossed to the curtains. The fabric was thick enough to fight him. He pulled it aside and light spilled in.
Below, a training yard stretched wide. Men traded blows with swords, their strikes ringing on steel, their armor thick and scarred.
Younger ones jogged in synchronized lines, boots hitting packed earth in a steady rhythm.
Further off, a man raised his hands and flame crawled across his palms like living ribbon.
Another answered with a burst of heat that made the air shimmer.
Jogi squinted until his eyes watered.
"Those... those are..." He swallowed, eyes glued to them. "They're wizards, right? Like, actual fuckin' wizards?"
He let the curtain fall back into place and the room went dim again.
For a long moment, he only sat on the edge of the bed, hands on his knees, trying gauge his new reality.
"So this is what they call reincarnation?" His brow tightened. "Transmigration... is that what this is?"
He had read a few of those novels once. He remembered thinking they were too slow, too easy, too much wish and not enough consequence.
He had dropped them halfway. Now he could only swallow the bitter pill of regret for not reading more.
His eyes moved over the room again, searching for clues.
"What now," he muttered. "If somebody finds out I'm in this body... what happens? They kill me?"
He stood and paced, bare feet whispering over the floor. The new memories kept nudging at him, trying to settle into place.
Titles. Names. Faces. Rules he had never learned. The mansion. The estate. The people in it. The dangers outside.
He tried to think like a man in trouble, not a man in a story.
Then something glimmered in his vision. Not in the room. In his eyes.
Letters, pale and bright, hung in the air as if the world had decided to write him a note.
{Sir engines, commence... Wait for a few breaths...}
Jogi froze. His stomach tightened.
{Behold. A true gentleman, his very soul found out, and known.}
{Welcome, good Sir Jogi of Sins.}
Jogi stared at the floating words, then waved a hand through them. His fingers met nothing. The text stayed anyway.
"What's this, some fancy-ass prompt or something?"
He jabbed at the air again, half expecting a menu to pop or a button to click. It felt like trying to grab smoke.
Another line appeared, as patient as a priest and twice as smug.
{Patience was held as a virtue, borne and wielded by a true gentleman.}
{Onward Progress Recorded - 52%}
Jogi blinked. The number sat there like it meant something. The words shimmered again.
{Onward Progress Recorded - 67%}
{Onward Progress Recorded - 100%}
{The Sir Engine's loading is completed.}
Jogi forced himself to stop touching the air. He waited, jaw tight. The loading faded. Two tabs hovered in its place.
{The Honorable Sir} {The Risqué Sir}
Jogi choked on a laugh and smothered it with his hand.
"What is up with these medieval titles?" he scoffed. " 'Risqué'? C'mon. This is. This is kinda cheesy."
He composed himself, breathing slow. He had read enough to know this part could go bad fast.
'One look,' he told himself. 'Just a look.'
Still, if he could benefit from the system, then why not. Curiosity pricked at Joji.
"Is it cool if I take missions on both?" he asked. "And can I get a preview?"
The reply came smooth as velvet.
{Be calm, Sir Jogi of Sins. A gentleman may take missions from either side, and still remain a gentleman.}
{By day, he brings justice and order to the land. By night, he brings warmth when candlelight fails.}
Jogi exhaled through his nose.
"Aight. Fair."
Jogi swallowed. He clicked.
{The Risqué Sir}
An emblem formed. A mustached man with passionate eyes and a bare, muscular chest, a rose lifted high in his right hand.
His left hand was half hidden. Jogi had to squint to see it. There he caught something delicate and lacy, unmistakably intimate, the sort of thing worn by women only for nightly duties or adult film shoots.
Jogi stared. His throat bobbed. At the bottom, new words appeared, nothing like the measured grace of the honorable path.
{Bold in mischief, Sweet-tongued, and shameless.}
"Fuckin knew it."