I woke up with a violent start, gasping desperately for air as if I'd been drowning in the depths of my own subconscious. My chest heaved painfully as I struggled to calm my racing heart, which thundered against my ribcage like a war drum. Cold sweat drenched my nightclothes, making them cling uncomfortably to my skin. As the fog of sleep lifted and clarity returned, I wiped the moisture from my brow with trembling fingers.
"So that was my past life," I muttered, my voice hoarse and unfamiliar to my own ears.
The memories cascaded through my mind like shattered fragments of a mirror—images of skyscrapers, smartphones, bustling cities with neon lights, and the constant hum of technology. A life I had lived before, now nothing more than ghostly recollections in a child's body.
Taking a deep, steadying breath, I swung my legs over the side of the bed, my bare feet meeting the cool stone floor. The sensation grounded me in this new reality as I padded across the room to the arched window. Drawing back the heavy velvet curtains, I squinted as golden rays of the rising sun flooded the chamber, illuminating motes of dust dancing in the air.
Below me stretched the sprawling estate of Viscount Gold. The training yard bustled with activity as soldiers clad in chainmail and leather practiced sword drills, their blades catching the morning light with each swing and parry. The rhythmic clang of metal against metal echoed upward. Maids in crisp uniforms hurried across the courtyard carrying baskets of linens and trays of food, their laughter carried on the morning breeze. Horse-drawn carriages rolled along the meticulously maintained cobblestone paths, wheels clattering against the stones as they transported goods and visitors.
I sighed deeply, resting my small hand against the cool, rough-hewn stone of the window frame. The juxtaposition between my memories and current reality was jarring. The technological advancements I took for granted in my previous life—smartphones, computers, modern medicine, even indoor plumbing—were nonexistent here. This world was firmly entrenched in what resembled Earth's medieval period, though with crucial differences that made it uniquely alien.
"Technology stagnant, progress frozen," I whispered to myself, watching a knight demonstrate proper shield positioning to a group of squires. "All because of their obsession with mana and elemental magic."
In this world, strength and magical power dictated everything—social standing, respect, even basic rights. Innovation was an afterthought, if considered at all. Why develop machines when a fire mage could produce the same results with a wave of their hand? Why advance medicine when healing magic existed? The reliance on inherent magical abilities had created a caste system more rigid than any I'd known before.
Four major races dominated this realm: humans with their adaptability and ambition; dragons with their overwhelming strength and pride; elves with their affinity for magic and longevity; and dwarves with their craftsmanship and resilience. According to the history books I'd glimpsed in my father's study, these races had been locked in endless wars, fighting over territory, resources, and ancient grudges.
That changed dramatically when the Demon Gate opened fifty years ago. A massive portal torn through the fabric of reality, spewing forth hordes of nightmarish creatures bent on destruction. The common threat had forced the four races to form an uneasy alliance, setting aside centuries of conflict to combat a greater enemy. At least, that was the simplified version told to children.
I frowned, pressing my forehead against the cool glass. The political reality was surely more complex. Perhaps after my awakening ceremony, I could gain access to the restricted sections of the family library and discover the unvarnished truth behind the alliance.
My contemplation was interrupted by three precise knocks on the heavy oak door, followed by a familiar gentle voice. "Young Master, are you awake?"
"Yes, Maya," I replied, turning from the window to face the door. "You may enter."
The door creaked open on its iron hinges, and Maya stepped into the room with practiced grace. She was a vision of quiet dignity, her movements efficient yet elegant as she closed the door behind her. Her striking obsidian eyes, framed by long lashes, complemented her raven-black hair, which was pulled back into a neat ponytail with not a strand out of place. Cherry-red lips added a splash of color to her porcelain complexion, curving into a warm smile that transformed her entire face.
Looking at her now, with my memories restored, I was struck by how youthful she appeared. Though I knew from overheard conversations that Maya had celebrated her fortieth birthday last winter, she looked no older than twenty-nine. Her skin remained smooth and unblemished, with only the faintest laugh lines at the corners of her eyes hinting at her true age. Despite her mature features—the high cheekbones, the graceful curve of her neck, the quiet confidence in her posture—her demeanor remained nurturing and protective whenever she interacted with me.
"Good morning, Young Master Harry," she greeted, her voice melodious in the quiet room. She offered a curtsy that was both respectful and affectionate. "I trust you slept well? It's time for your morning bath. The Viscount and Lady Gold will be expecting you in the great hall for breakfast shortly."
I nodded in acknowledgment, watching as she moved with practiced efficiency toward the adjoining bathroom. The soft swish of her uniform—a dark blue dress with the Gold family crest embroidered on the bodice—accompanied her movements as she began preparing the copper bathtub.
That's when the full implications of my situation crashed into me like a physical blow. In this household, as the young son of nobility, Maya bathed me. Every. Single. Day.
The thought made heat rush to my face as memories from my past life—a teenager from a world of privacy and independence—collided violently with my current circumstances. The idea of someone else bathing me now felt mortifyingly inappropriate and embarrassing.
"Maya," I began hesitantly, my child's voice higher than I'd like. "Just pour the water in the bathtub. I'll... I'll wash myself today."
She froze mid-motion, a pitcher of warm water suspended in her hands. Slowly, she turned to face me, her obsidian eyes widening with shock and unmistakable hurt. To my horror, tears began to gather at the corners of those expressive eyes.
"Did I do something wrong, Young Master?" she asked, her voice trembling with emotion. "Have I displeased you in some way? If so, I humbly beg your forgiveness."
"No, no, Maya," I hurriedly assured her, guilt flooding through me at causing her distress. "You've done nothing wrong. I just... I just want to try doing it myself for a change." I attempted a casual shrug, though it felt stiff and unnatural.
Maya set down the pitcher with trembling hands and approached me, genuine concern etched across her features. She knelt before me, bringing us to eye level, her floral perfume—lavender with hints of rosemary—wafting gently between us.
"But Young Master," she protested softly, her brow furrowed with worry, "you're only seven. You're too young to bathe yourself properly. What would Lady Gold say if she learned I neglected my duties? And the water—it could be too hot, you might slip..."
Too young to bathe myself? What kind of backward logic is that? I thought incredulously. In my previous life, kids learned to bathe themselves by age five.
However, the genuine distress in Maya's expression made it clear this wasn't merely about maintaining protocol. For her, this was about caring for a child she had helped raise since infancy. Rejecting her assistance wasn't just breaking tradition—it was rejecting her role in my life.
I studied her face, noting the slight tremble in her lower lip and the way her hands clasped together anxiously. Her devotion was touching, even if her insistence on bathing me was awkward from my perspective.
"Alright, Maya," I relented with a sigh of resignation. "Let's... bathe."
As soon as the words left my mouth, I realized how strange they sounded coming from a child's lips. Heat rushed to my face, staining my cheeks crimson, but Maya didn't seem to notice my discomfort. Her expression immediately brightened like the sun emerging from behind storm clouds. She nodded eagerly, relief evident in every line of her body as she dashed into the bathroom to continue her preparations with renewed vigor.
I followed her with shuffling steps, mentally preparing myself for the awkwardness ahead. The bathroom was warm and filled with steam, smelling of the aromatic oils Maya had added to the water—cedarwood and mint, my usual preference. The copper tub gleamed in the light of several magic-infused crystals set into wall sconces, casting a soft blue glow across the tiled floor.
Life in this medieval world was going to require significant adjustments, especially with memories of my modern sensibilities clashing with the customs and expectations of this place. As Maya helped me remove my nightclothes, chattering happily about the day ahead, I resolved to find a balance between honoring this world's traditions and gradually introducing small changes that would allow me greater independence.
After all, if I was going to make the most of this second chance at life, I would need to adapt without drawing too much unwanted attention to myself.
After enduring the mortifying bath experience with as much dignity as I could muster, I stood patiently as Maya dressed me in my formal attire. The outfit was elaborate by any standard—a deep blue velvet doublet with silver embroidery depicting the Gold family crest, matching breeches, silk stockings, and polished leather shoes with silver buckles. The ensemble was completed with pristine white gloves that reminded me of the formal wear seen in period dramas from my previous life.
Standing before the full-length mirror in my chamber, I had to admit the outfit conveyed an undeniable sense of nobility. It resembled the suits worn by British royalty during state occasions, the intricate silver patterns catching the light as I moved. The tailoring was impeccable, the fabric clearly of the highest quality. Despite my physical youth, the clothing lent me a certain gravitas.
"Young Master looks most handsome today," Maya said proudly, adjusting my collar one final time. "Very fitting for your awakening ceremony."
I nodded my thanks, trying to ignore the fluttering of anxiety in my stomach at the mention of the ceremony. With a final glance in the mirror, I squared my shoulders and made my way out of my chambers, down the winding staircase, and through the portrait gallery that led to the grand dining hall.
Sunlight filtered through the stained-glass windows, casting colorful patterns across the polished marble floor. The vaulted ceiling soared overhead, supported by intricately carved wooden beams. Tapestries depicting hunting scenes and historic battles adorned the walls, adding warmth to the otherwise austere architecture.
At the center of the hall stood a massive oak table, its surface gleaming from years of diligent polishing. My father, mother, and sister were already seated, attended by several servants who moved silently around the table, refilling goblets and presenting dishes.
The aroma of freshly baked bread, roasted meats, and simmered fruits filled the air, making my stomach growl in anticipation despite my misgivings about the bland cuisine. Crystal decanters of fruit juices and pitchers of milk adorned the table, catching the morning light and sending prisms of color dancing across the white tablecloth.
My father, Lord Viscount Lor Gold, dominated the head of the table with his imposing presence. Even seated, his military bearing was evident in his straight posture and alert gaze. His amber eyes—which I had inherited—missed nothing, constantly scanning his surroundings as if expecting an attack. Years of battlefield command had left their mark not just in the three parallel scars that ran from his left temple to his jaw, but in the perpetual tension that hummed through his powerful frame.
His dark hair, streaked with dignified silver at the temples, was cut short in military fashion. His hands, resting on either side of his plate, bore the calluses of a man who still practiced with sword and shield daily, despite his elevated status. The signet ring of House Gold gleamed on his right hand, a constant reminder of how far he had risen from his common origins.
My father was a legend in the kingdom—a commoner who had risen through the ranks to become a war hero during the early demon incursions. As commander of the kingdom's Third Legion, he had led a daring counterattack that closed a minor demon gate before it could fully form. His strategic brilliance had saved thousands of lives and earned him the respect of even the most prejudiced nobility.
It was during his military career that he met my mother, Frigga, an elven combat mage assigned to his unit as magical support. Their relationship had scandalized both human and elven society at the time, but their undeniable effectiveness in battle had silenced many critics. Their love had been powerful enough for my father to eventually resign his commission, though the kingdom had quickly moved to retain his services in other ways.
My mother sat to his right, a study in elegant contrast to my father's martial presence. Frigga Gold née Silverleaf embodied the ethereal beauty of the elven race. Her waist-length platinum blonde hair, currently braided into an intricate coronet, framed a face of timeless beauty. Her violet eyes—which my sister had inherited—held the wisdom and patience acquired over her 150 years of life, though by elven standards, she was still considered relatively young.
Her slender fingers, perfect for the precise gestures required in high-level spellcasting, were adorned only with her wedding band and the enchanted silver ring that marked her as an Archmage of the Fifth Circle. Her sage green gown, embroidered with subtle patterns of leaves and vines in silver thread, complemented her fair complexion and pointed ears, which were decorated with delicate mithril cuffs.
Despite her gentle appearance, I knew from the servants' whispered stories that my mother had been a formidable force on the battlefield. Her mastery of elemental magic, particularly ice and lightning, had earned her the battlefield moniker "Storm Frost" among both allies and enemies.
Seated across from my mother was my younger sister, Lily, who had just turned six last month. With her mother's violet eyes and our father's dark hair, she was already showing signs of the beauty she would one day possess. Her face still retained the roundness of childhood, her expressions unguarded and honest. She caught my eye as I entered and grinned, revealing a missing front tooth that added to her mischievous charm.
Unlike me in my formal attire, Lily had somehow convinced her handmaid to dress her in a more practical outfit—a simple white blouse and dark blue skirt that would allow her to run and play after breakfast. Knowing my sister's persuasive abilities, I wasn't surprised she had managed this small victory.
Taking my seat at the table, I offered formal greetings to my family. "Good morning, Father, Mother, Sister. I hope you all slept well."
"Good morning, Harry," my mother replied, her melodious voice carrying the subtle accent common to the northern elven kingdoms. Her eyes warmed with maternal pride as she took in my appearance. "You look very distinguished today."
My sister offered me a playful smile. "Too stiff," she commented with childish directness. "You look like you can't breathe."
"Lily," our father admonished, though I detected a hint of amusement in his stern tone. "Mind your manners at the table." He then acknowledged me with a curt nod, his expression as unyielding as ever.
A servant appeared at my elbow, placing a plate before me laden with roasted chicken, steamed vegetables, and a slice of dark bread. I thanked him with a nod and picked up my utensils, cutting into the meat with practiced precision.
As I took my first bite, disappointment flooded through me. The chicken, while perfectly cooked, was almost entirely devoid of flavor. "In the name of any god or lord," I thought miserably, "what is this bland excuse for food?"
The taste—or rather, the lack thereof—made me long desperately for the rich flavors of my previous life: the perfect blend of herbs and spices in KFC chicken, the satisfying umami of a well-made burger, the complex aromatics of momos dipped in spicy chutney. My culinary memories were a cruel torment as I chewed the insipid meat.
This world didn't even have proper spices! Pepper was a luxury reserved for the highest nobility, and herbs were used sparingly, primarily for medicinal purposes rather than flavor. Salt was the primary seasoning, and even that was applied with frustrating restraint. My heart sank as I continued eating, each bite a reminder of simple pleasures now lost to me.
My expression must have betrayed my thoughts, for my mother leaned forward, concern evident in her violet eyes. "Harry, what's wrong? Don't you like the food? Cook can prepare something else if you wish."
I looked at her kind face and thought bitterly, It tastes like something one would eat in a hospital during a severe illness. But I couldn't say that—how would I explain my knowledge of hospitals? Instead, I quickly composed my features into what I hoped was a thoughtful expression.
"No, Mother, the food is fine," I replied, forcing myself to take another bite. "I was just... thinking about the awakening ceremony today."
My father set down his goblet with deliberate care, the sound drawing everyone's attention. He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin before addressing me directly, his deep voice commanding the room.
"Don't worry yourself unnecessarily, Harry," he said, his amber eyes boring into mine with intensity. "You have the blood of both your mother and me flowing through your veins. Your mother is of the noble Silverleaf elven line, known for their exceptional magical aptitude. And while I may have begun as a commoner, my strength and strategic mind have proven themselves many times over."
He gestured with his fork for emphasis. "You're destined to excel. You'll either become a knight like me, harnessing physical mana to enhance your body and weapons, or a mage like your mother, manipulating elemental forces. Perhaps even a forger, combining both disciplines to create magical artifacts."
Before I could respond, Lily interjected with characteristic enthusiasm, her voice piping up from across the table. "I'd rather become a mage like Mother or a knight like Father," she declared, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "Definitely not a forger. They spend all day in dark, smoky workshops."
My father's expression hardened slightly at her dismissive tone, the scars on his face seeming more prominent as his jaw tightened. However, when he spoke, his voice remained measured and calm.
"Lily," he said, meeting her violet eyes directly, "it's unwise to disparage forgers. Without their skill and knowledge, knights would wield ordinary steel, and mages would lack the implements that focus and amplify their powers." He leaned forward slightly, his presence suddenly more imposing. "Remember that our family's prominence comes largely from our control of the blackstone mines. The very mineral that forgers prize above all else for creating magical artifacts is the foundation of our wealth and influence."
Lily shrank back slightly in her chair, properly chastened. After a moment, she nodded, though her expression remained stubborn. "Yes, Father. I'll remember that," she conceded before adding, "But I still want to be a mage or a knight when I awaken."
My mother, ever the peacemaker, reached across to gently touch Lily's hand. Her smile was radiant, filled with maternal affection. "Oh, my dear girl," she said softly, "I would be delighted to teach you the arcane arts if that is indeed your path. Your natural energy feels aligned with water and light elements, which have wonderful healing applications."
The tension at the table dissipated under my mother's gentle influence. Even my father's stern countenance softened as he gazed at his wife, the love between them palpable despite their contrasting personalities.
Before the conversation could continue along this pleasant trajectory, my father straightened in his chair, his expression becoming serious once more. His tone shifted to one I recognized from when he addressed his steward or the captain of the guard—commanding and brooking no argument.
"This afternoon, after the midday meal, your mother will guide both of you through your awakening ceremony," he announced, his gaze moving between Lily and me. "It's earlier than customary, but with the increased demon activity reported at the southern borders, it's prudent to determine your abilities sooner rather than later."
A cold weight settled in my stomach at his words. Increased demon activity? That detail hadn't been mentioned in the children's lessons or servants' gossip. The implications were troubling—political instability, potential for renewed conflict, disruption of trade routes. I filed the information away for later consideration.
Lily and I exchanged glances—hers excited, mine carefully neutral—before nodding in unison. "Yes, Father," we responded dutifully.
As I returned to my bland meal, forcing myself to eat despite the disappointment each bite delivered, my mind raced with possibilities. The awakening ceremony would determine my magical affinity and potential, effectively charting the course of my future in this world. With my knowledge from a previous life and whatever abilities I might awaken today, perhaps I could introduce some much-needed innovations to this medieval society.
Starting, I decided as I chewed another tasteless piece of chicken, with the introduction of proper spices to the kingdom's cuisine. Some things were simply too important to neglect, even in a world of magic and monsters.