"Young Master?"
A girl's unfamiliar voice trembled at his bedside.
"Lord Darian, wake up, sir."
His eyes flew open.
Takura shot upright, the softness of the mattress shifting beneath him — far too soft. The sudden movement startled the young girl beside the bed. She flinched backward, clutching her apron as though it were a shield.
She appeared no older than seventeen, her expression caught between fear and concern. Chestnut-brown hair was tied neatly behind her head, though a few loose strands framed her round face. Her hazel eyes, wide and tired, reflected both innocence and unease. The uniform she wore was simple yet pristine — a dark dress beneath a carefully pressed white apron.
She looked at him with familiarity.
He did not recognize her.
"Lord Darian… you frightened me. I'm sorry," she murmured, her voice small but steady.
"Lord Darian?" he repeated.
The voice that left his throat was not his own. It was younger. Lighter.
"Who is Lord Dar—"
Pain erupted inside his skull.
Memories pierced through him like blades through armor — foreign, intrusive, overwhelming. Faces he had never seen. A vast mansion draped in crimson banners. Whispers. Laughter edged with mockery. A childhood that did not belong to him, yet unfolded with unsettling clarity.
It felt as though an entire lifetime had been forced into his mind at once.
He staggered, clutching his head as the torrent poured in. His breathing turned uneven, and a dull ache throbbed behind his eyes.
Darian Redmond.
The name echoed within him.
These were Darian's memories.
But why did he possess them?
He remained seated for several long moments, allowing the fragments to settle. When at last the storm quieted, he lowered his gaze to his hands.
They were slender. Pale. Unscarred.
Not the hands of a man who had gripped a blade for decades. Not the calloused hands of a warrior raised in discipline and blood.
A chill ran down his spine.
He pushed himself off the bed, his legs unsteady beneath an unfamiliar weight. The bed itself stood unnaturally high, layered and cushioned in a way that felt excessive. In his previous life, beds had rested close to the floor — simple, practical. This was something else entirely.
He stumbled toward the mirror positioned in the corner of the chamber. Its frame was enormous, adorned in silver and gold patterns carved with unnecessary extravagance.
The reflection that stared back at him was not the samurai he had forged himself into over decades of training.
It was a stranger.
Dark red hair fell loosely across a face far too young — no more than eighteen. The skin was pale, almost bloodless, lips faint in color. Dark rings shadowed hollow eyes, and though the frame was lean, it looked fragile, as if a strong wind might knock him over.
He leaned closer, heart tightening.
This was no hardened warrior.
This was a noble boy wrapped in silk too fine for a body too weak to bear it.
"Young Master, is something wrong?" the girl asked carefully.
"…Nothing is wrong, Alayna."
The name left his mouth without hesitation.
He froze.
He should not have known it.
Yet he did.
Darian's memories lingered beneath his own — subtle, intrusive, undeniable. The body was not his. The name was not his.
The last thing he remembered was dying on a burning battlefield.
Now he stood within another man's chamber.
An unsettling truth weighed onto Takura,.. he had died and awakened as Darian Redmond.
"I have prepared your breakfast, Young Master," Elaina said softly, drawing him back to the present.
She lifted a tray from the bedside table. Steam curled from a bowl of rich broth sprinkled with herbs. Beside it lay neatly sliced roast fowl, warm bread, a small cup of fruit juice — and, arranged carefully on a plate, pieces of freshly baked cake.
Cake.
He had never seen such a thing in his former life, yet he recognized it instantly. The knowledge surfaced naturally, as if it had always been his.
The abundance unsettled him.
Back in the Hayato clan, even as heir, meals were modest and shared among warriors. Food was earned through labor and discipline. Here, indulgence was placed before him without effort.
A faint smile touched his lips.
So this was the life of a noble.
The title "Young Master" alone spoke of status. The chamber confirmed it. The room was vast — larger than his entire home in his previous life. Thick curtains draped tall windows.
Chandeliers hung from an impossibly high ceiling. Shelves lined the walls, filled with untouched books. The furniture and walls were carved with intricate designs in red, gold, and white.
On the far wall, an insignia stood prominently displayed — two crossed blades behind a shield emblazoned with a red dragon.
Power.
Lineage.
Authority.
"I've placed the food on your dining table, Young Master," Elaina said.
"Oh… thank you," he replied evenly.
He would have to play the part.
Until he understood this world — until he understood why he had been given another life — revealing the truth would only bring danger.
He had been granted a second chance.
This time, he would not be a failure.