A warm embrace of morning light woke me up from what seems to be a deep slumber, I never overslept exept when i was drunk from parties in the office.
I instinctively reached out for my phone, careful not to lift my ass off the bed—just wanted to call my PA before he started flooding my inbox. But something felt...off. The ceiling I expected to see—plain white, minimalist design, and a sleek, professionally embedded central air conditioner—wasn't there.
"5 more minutes.....!!.." I mumbled
"Fuck where the hell am I" I screamed.
Because what greeted me upon waking wasn't the clean, reserved interior I'd personally approved with my engineer for my private suite. No. It was a goddamn 5.3-meter high ceiling with a falcon-shaped crest so massive it practically qualified as architectural arrogance. Calling it "interior decor" felt like an insult—this wasn't interior design; this was a coffer. A cathedral-worthy, ego-stroking, imperial-level coffer.
I slipped out of bed, tension buzzing under my skin, instincts screaming at me to bolt, to find someone—anyone. But I pulled myself back. Charging into unknown territory, unarmed and unsure of intentions? That's not strategy. That's suicide.
My eyes scanned the room, landing on a table that looked like it had been plucked straight out of a royal showroom.
A tall, crystal-clear vase held a fresh bouquet—vibrant, fragrant, and too perfectly arranged to be anything short of a statement. The table itself was carved from rich, polished wood, each corner etched with delicate patterns that probably cost some poor artisan a month of their life. And seated beside it was a chair, upholstered in a bold fabric that matched the embroidered cloth draped across the tabletop with almost obsessive precision.
This... this doesn't look like the kind of room you'd use to tie someone up for ransom. Hell, I'm not even restrained. The windows are wide open, sunlight pouring in freely. No locks, no bars—nothing to suggest captivity.
No, this isn't some hostage situation.
Whoever owns this room either has no interest in keeping me prisoner—or they're stupidly confident I won't—or can't—run.
With that logic barely holding my anxiety at bay, I slowly began gathering the courage to approach the door—assuming, of course, it wasn't locked. Every step I took landed on an absurdly plush carpet, the kind that whispered luxury with every inch. It felt like walking across delicate petals—soft, almost ticklish. Honestly, those eight steps were the most comfortable of my life.
"Must be a broadloom…" I mused, glancing down. "Who the hell buys one big enough to cover a ballroom-sized bedroom?"
My mind wandered to the handful of lunatics rich enough to pull something like this off.
"Probably Noah from the Blythe family," I guessed. "The guy has an antique fetish and a wallet fat enough to indulge it. Maybe I passed out at one of his parties again."
It was the only explanation that made sense. I couldn't even recall what I'd been doing yesterday, but a hangover from drinking with someone like Noah seemed...plausible.
Just as I reached for the ornate doorknob, a soft knock echoed from the other side.
And like that—every ounce of courage I'd painstakingly gathered drained from my body. Gone. Evaporated. I froze in place, my hand hovering mid-air, deciding it was smarter to wait...let whoever's on the other side make the first move.
"Young Master," came a voice from the other side — smooth, clear, and composed, yet carrying the gentle warmth of a woman in her early twenties. "I trust you are awake. If permitted, I would like to assist you in preparing for the meal arranged by His Grace, Lord Everard."
...
...
......!!
EVERARD!!! The moment my mind grasped the sound of that name, my legs began to tremble. My hand instinctively gripped the doorknob—partly to steady myself, partly in fear that the door might swing open and bring me face to face with... him. Not out of terror, but out of sheer pressure.
Because Everard isn't just any name—it's the name I gave to the father of the former lord of House Gyrfald. The man I envisioned while writing the novel. A name I crafted to belong to someone unshakable—a paragon of composure and quiet strength.
Wait—yes, I remember now… I was in my room, ready to write the opening lines of my first ever novel, the story I wanted to tell… and then—what? A sharp pain, my chest locking up, and—
My breath hitched. The composure I'd barely begun to build crumbled. The reality I had mistaken for some extravagant prank slipped out of reach like sand through my fingers. My lungs strained for air that refused to satisfy. Adrenaline surged again, burning in my veins, and I tightened my grip on the doorknob—like letting go would mean letting go of life itself.
"Young master, shall I excuse my-"
"you are late, what could possibly be more important than tending to me especially when it's my father his grace I am supposed to meet"?
I responded with a poker face, devoid of emotion, the same one I wore in boardrooms when negotiations turned into silent wars. My tone was steady—stern, unwavering, with no trace of anxiety or hesitation. This was more than just a facade; it was a weapon. One of the many tools that had earned me a reputation far more intimidating than most second-generation heirs and even a good chunk of the old-guard business titans.
I wasn't feared solely because of what I knew—it was how I moved, how I watched, how I spoke. I had shadowed my father through years of mergers, deals, and corporate battles, absorbing the unspoken language of power. And now, here I was, drawing on those same lessons… not in a boardroom, but in a world where etiquette, titles, and swords ruled the game.
"ahh...i-i my apologies young master, madam Seraphina had me supervise dining hall, i will nev-"
"i understand but it is getting late, if you don't hurry up i will have to do the samething with my father as you are doing with me,that is making EXCUSES" i said with a tone that implies both accepting apologies and reprimending for the tardiness.
"o-of course young master, at once"
since the maid seem flustered, I can safely assume she won't be speaking for a while and keep her focus on making my appearance presentable.
Did I doubt the whole "young master" thing? Of course, I did. It sounded like the setup to a very elaborate prank. So instead of responding with a casual "come in," I opened the door myself. I needed proof—undeniable proof—that this wasn't some drunken dream or twisted prank. A name like Everard could've been a coincidence. But if the appearance of the maid matched the image I had in mind while drafting my novel, then… maybe, just maybe, this was real.
And there she was.
Standing before me was a beautiful girl with a sharp, professional demeanor. Her crisp, immaculately pressed uniform and unwavering gaze spoke of discipline, confidence, and pride in her role. She looked exactly like how I imagined Clara Finch—every detail, down to the subtle grace in her posture.
Then, as if the world itself wanted to mock my disbelief, a transparent window materialized beside her.
CLARA FINCH
Race: Human
strength:71 Grade: B-
Speed:83 Grade: A-
Endurance: 54 Grade:D
Combat power: C
Intelligence:14 Grade: A
Comment: Nah!! Dude, naaahh! This girl is no maid...
Ladies and gentlemen… I've reincarnated.
Do I actually believe it? No.
But does my disbelief change the reality staring me in the face? Also no.
So what's the move?
Adapt.
Adapt to whatever fresh absurdity life throws at you.
In the jungle, the strongest may rule. But in society? In the world of people, politics, and power plays?
It's the most adaptable who rise to the top.
Flexibility beats force. Every time.
That's not philosophy—that's experience talking.
"Young master, please check the mirror and let me know if there are any adjustments you'd like me to make," said my maid—her voice now steady, professional, and entirely devoid of the flustered nervousness from earlier. Her brown eyes remained fixed on my reflection, calm and calculating.
"Good job. No further adjustments are necessary," I replied, keeping my expression neutral, concealing the flicker of surprise I felt at my own appearance.
Back on Earth, I was considered handsome—even by competitive standards. But this body? With the refined touch of a skilled maid and an expensive ensemble that masked its slight build, this version of me was objectively more striking. The delicate features, aristocratic presence, and a sharpness born of lineage…
He looked like someone destined to be watched.
"I am thankful for such high praise. If you may, let us head toward the dining hall, young master," she said, bowing gracefully. Her tone was composed but laced with subtle urgency, and as she dipped forward, her golden hair fluttered like it had rehearsed that move for a shampoo commercial.
Seriously? High praise? I just said 'Good job'. Either she's got the emotional sensitivity of a sponge, or this world has some absurdly low standards for compliments.
"Yes, lead the way," I said, still pretending to inspect my reflection in the mirror like some noble narcissist evaluating art.
"My pleasure, young master," she replied, immediately taking the lead with brisk yet elegant steps—light, deliberate, and clearly trained to leave no sound behind.
She walked like someone who'd practiced it in front of a damn choreographer, and here I was, tailing her like I belonged in this painting of nobility. Honestly, not bad for day one in a world I made up while dying.
Walking behind her agile yet graceful figure, I found my thoughts spiraling.
What's the current timeline? No, not of some neatly written plot—because that never existed in the first place. I mean the timeline here, in this world. The fact that Everard Gyrfald is still the reigning duke means I haven't taken over yet… which in turn means my demise hasn't begun.
Demise!?
Yes—demise.
Do you know who I've reincarnated into?
Hugo Gyrfald. The future duke whose head ends up on a spike after a rebellion led by a commoner. The same Hugo I designed to be despised. And honestly? The people had every damn right.
He was an irredeemable piece of shit.
A pompous aristocrat who flaunted extravagant displays of power and luxury—funded by the blood and sweat of commoners paying outrageous taxes. All the meaningful reforms his father, Everard, worked so hard to implement through political maneuvering and military alliances? Scrapped. Tossed aside with the arrogant sneer, "Not enough funds for that shit."
No vision. No responsibility. Just rot in noble form.
The people grew tired. Loyalty twisted into resentment. Fear curdled into fury. And Hugo? He didn't see any of it coming.
He was too busy playing duke to notice the warning signs—counts and viscounts starting to ignore orders, territories beginning to act independently, unrest bubbling just beneath the surface.
The man was a walking corpse. He just didn't know it yet
But what I still can't wrap my head around is this—how the hell does a commoner get enough leeway to topple a duchy?
Yes, rebellions happen. But they're the kind you expect under the rule of barons or maybe viscounts at best. Not against a duke. Never against a duke.
Marquises and dukes aren't just nobles—they're the Emperor's proxies. Living, breathing extensions of imperial will. To move against one is to challenge the Empire itself. And what can a mere commoner possibly offer the Emperor in return? Nothing.
If the Emperor ever did want to get rid of a duke, he wouldn't need to stir up rebellion. No, he'd do it the clean, political way—by crafting a rise for a more "suitable" candidate. A viscount, perhaps. Someone he could back discreetly.
He'd start by planting whispers—rumors soaked in just enough truth to be believed, and just enough venom to destroy reputations. With a network of well-timed slander, he could slowly poison the perception of a sitting duke. Then, with support from at least three other dukes and the right amount of legal theatrics, he could strip the title away in a grand, perfectly orchestrated fall from grace.
No blood. No fire. Just a cold, calculated transition.
So for a rebellion to have occurred, there's only one logical conclusion—the Emperor wanted the protagonist to become a duke.
Not just a candidate. Not just a pawn. The duke.
And if he was willing to spark a civil upheaval within his own empire to make that happen? That speaks volumes about how dangerous—or perhaps how important—this protagonist really is.
I need to know why.
And the only way to do that... is to start poking around and kicking over a few stones.
.
"Young master, we are here, i will open the door on your command." she spoke with a respectful yet firm tone.
"Has my father arrived?" I asked.
"Madam Seraphina should be here at the door if that was not the case, suggesting His grace has already arrived, But you are not late young master" she replied ,indirectly suggesting her tradiness this morning did not effect this meeting hence giving meaning to her urgent tone earlier.
So beyond this door is duke everard, a warrior whose name struck fear into his enemies, their hearts chilled with dread on the battlefield.His blade a swift harbinger of ruin and proof of him being a tempest of valor. The falcon duchy unlike all other 7 duchies is built solely by him. His valor and commanding demeanor rivaling even that of the Emperor quickly made the falcon duchy tear into the ranks of top 3 duchy of Valthryon empire.
"Open the door," I said with an unwavering tone and walked straight into the hall with movements that showed no hint of hesitation, exuding an air of confidence, leaving behind my stunned maid.
The maid stood frozen, her eyes wide with disbelief as she stared at Hugo, unable to align the confident figure before her with the Hugo she knew who shivers with fear at the mere thought of his father.