Consciousness returned slowly, not as a single awakening but as a gradual layering of sensation.
First came sound — uneven breathing close to him, restrained and fragile, as though someone were trying not to cry. Then came weight, pressing against his ribs and limbs in a way that felt unfamiliar, as if the body he occupied did not yet fully belong to him. Only after that did light seep through his closed eyelids.
He did not open them immediately.
He listened.
There was no hum of filtered air. No distant sirens. No sterile scent of antiseptic or the metallic aftertaste of discharged rounds lingering in recycled ventilation.
No gunpowder.
The memory arrived intact.
The laboratory door splintering inward. Boots striking tile in controlled rhythm. Commands shouted in overlapping languages — English, French — sharp, authoritative, final.
"Down! Drop it!"
He had not been holding a weapon. Only a glass stirring rod, solution still clinging to its surface. Even in that moment, he had noticed the burner behind him was running slightly too hot. Two degrees above ideal crystallization temperature. The batch would not settle cleanly if left unattended.
He had always noticed details like that.
Then the first shot shattered glass.
The second struck someone behind him.
The third ended the calculation.
There had been no dramatic last thought. No righteous anger. Only interruption — as if a line of work had been forcibly closed before completion.
He had known, deep down, that his life would likely end that way. Men who become indispensable to criminals are never permitted to walk away. Men who attempt to leave are reminded, politely at first, why they cannot.
He had tried once.
The refusal had been calm. Almost sympathetic.
Interpol simply concluded the discussion for everyone involved.
He did not feel rage as the memory settled. Only a strange stillness, as if a long tension had finally released.
Then he opened his eyes.
The ceiling above him was wooden, slightly warped with age. Sunlight filtered through a narrow crack, cutting a thin line across the room.
This was not a hospital.
He inhaled carefully and felt the difference immediately.
The lungs drawing air were smaller. The chest narrower. When he shifted slightly, pain flared along his ribs — not the sharp internal rupture of a bullet wound, but the deep, bruised ache of blunt force.
Another memory rose to meet the first.
Small hands gripping wooden bucket handles.
Bare feet scraping against packed dirt.
The weight too much for thin arms to carry steadily.
He had been crossing the main road when he stumbled. The buckets tipped. Water spilled across the path just as a carriage turned the bend.
Horses reared.
A guard stepped down, irritation already written across his face.
There had been a faint violet glow around the man's gauntlet.
Aura.
The word belonged to this world.
"You blind rat!"
The strike had not been meant to kill.
But malnourished seven-year-old bodies are not designed to withstand enhanced impact.
He had fallen.
Darkness followed.
Two deaths.
One by bullet.
One by fist.
"…Duke… please wake up…"
The voice trembled.
He turned his head slowly.
A woman leaned over him, exhaustion visible in every line of her face, yet unable to hide her natural beauty. Dark hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck. Hands roughened by manual labor. Eyes red and swollen from crying.
Evelyn.
His mother.
Behind her stood two girls.
Cera, older, jaw clenched as if holding herself together through sheer force.
Jocelyn, younger, not even attempting restraint as tears ran freely.
His sisters.
The word felt unfamiliar and immediate at the same time.
He attempted to sit up.
The room tilted sharply, and his arms trembled beneath his own weight. The body was light — too light. Weak in a way that bordered on structural instability.
He lay back down.
"I remember," he said quietly.
All three froze.
"You… you do?" Evelyn whispered.
He nodded faintly.
"I was carrying water. I slipped. The carriage had to stop."
Cera's hands tightened at her sides.
"The guard was angry," he continued evenly. "He hit me."
Evelyn covered her mouth.
"I wasn't there," she said, voice breaking. "If I had walked with you—"
"It wouldn't have changed anything."
The words came out measured, too composed for a child.
He softened his tone.
"It's okay, Mom. I'm fine now."
The word "Mom" felt strange in his mouth. He had never spoken it in his previous life. No one had waited outside a room hoping he would wake. No one had rationed food so he could recover.
Evelyn leaned forward carefully and embraced him, mindful of his ribs.
He allowed it.
Warmth was unfamiliar territory.
Jocelyn sniffed loudly. "We gave you all the porridge."
He looked at them properly then.
The faint sharpness beneath their cheekbones. The fatigue in their posture. They had been feeding him their portions.
In his previous life, he had been valued.
Here, he was protected.
The difference unsettled him more than death had.
He shifted slightly and felt the weakness in his limbs again. If he had been stronger, perhaps he would have stood faster in the road. Perhaps the guard would not have bothered striking him.
Or perhaps he would have anyway.
Power rarely requires fairness. It only requires the absence of resistance.
He remembered Duke's childhood memory of knights passing through the village — tall figures in polished armor, the air around them seeming heavier somehow. Adults lowered their heads without being told. No one obstructed their path.
Strength insulated.
Status insulated.
Resources insulated.
He possessed none of those.
Evelyn studied his face closely.
"You seem different," she murmured.
"I feel different," he replied.
That was true.
Two complete lifetimes now occupied his thoughts, not in conflict, but in integration. He did not attempt to explain that. There was no need.
He had escaped one prison in which his skill had made him indispensable and therefore trapped. In this world, he was free — but weak.
Weakness was another kind of cage.
But this one came with warmth.
And warmth complicated ambition.
He did not feel hatred toward the guard. Hatred was inefficient.
But he recorded the event carefully.
Power in this world was visible. Structured. Tangible.
Anything structured could be studied.
Anything studied could be acquired.
He closed his eyes again, not to sleep but to think.
He would not make loud vows.
He had learned better than that.
But he would not remain fragile.
Not in a world where fragility invited blows.
Outside, the village carried on without pause.
Inside, three people finally allowed themselves to breathe in relief.
Duke lay still.
And began calculating.