Morning light slowly crept through the tent's flap, brushing against Ron's sleeping face as he lay on a straw mattress.
The warm sunlight tickled his eyelids, making him groan softly and instinctively turn over, trying to escape the intrusive brightness. He pulled the thin blanket over his face, hoping to slip back into his dreams.
But the peace didn't last long.
Voices from outside the tent grew steadily louder—the clinking of weapons being sharpened, the steady march of soldiers carrying supplies, and the sharp barks of a knight's orders as he directed the troops.
The clamor of military life seeped into his ears like waves crashing against a shoreline.
Then, a voice sharper and louder than the rest rang out from outside the tent.
"Robin! Still asleep, huh? Get up! You think the conquest of a city can wait just because one lazy kid won't get out of bed?"
The voice was full of energy, slightly teasing, but carried a command that couldn't be ignored. Ron opened his eyes slowly and let out a long sigh. His heavy eyelids resisted, but he forced them open, staring blankly at the tent's fabric ceiling.
"So this… isn't a dream," he muttered, his hoarse voice nearly drowned by the noise outside.
He sat up and rubbed his face. His small, light body still felt unfamiliar, but not as alien as it had the night before.
Somehow, he was starting to get used to the sensation—whether because he was beginning to accept this reality, or because this body was slowly taking root within him.
He stood carefully, stretching his stiff body after sleeping on straw. Then his eyes landed on the same light armor from the night before, still standing by the tent's entrance as if it had been waiting for him all this time.
"Conquering a city, huh…" he muttered with a bitter smile.
With slight hesitation but clear curiosity, Ron began putting on his clothes and gear, preparing to face a day that promised to be far from peaceful.
Though he still didn't fully understand what was happening, one thing was certain: he was no longer in the world he once knew.
The light armor he wore only covered his chest, a stark contrast to the other knights who donned full body protection from head to toe.
Yet instead of looking vulnerable, Ron appeared agile and swift in his outfit—as if that was his natural fighting style.
Over the armor, he wore a long emerald green cloak that reached down to his ankles. The fabric was thin yet strong, fluttering gently with every step he took, as though it danced with the cold morning wind.
After making sure he had everything—his gloves, a small belt pouch filled with unfamiliar items, and a dagger tucked at his side—Ron took a deep breath and stepped out of his tent.
The morning air greeted him with a refreshing chill. The sky was still a pale blue, dotted with lingering wisps of mist that had yet to fully dissipate. Ron scanned the area, and his eyes immediately fell upon a man standing not far away—Edward.
The man wore elegant armor with the same design as the night before: striking but not excessive, radiating the presence of a leader without needing to say a word.
Arms crossed over his chest, posture straight and confident, Edward looked at Ron with a faint smile that made it clear he had been waiting for some time.
"So you're finally awake," he said casually, his voice cutting through the growing noise of the waking camp.
Ron only nodded slightly, still feeling a bit awkward. In his mind, he wanted to ask about the conquest Edward had mentioned the night before—which city they were taking, and why.
But as he opened his mouth…
"So, what are my orders, Edward?"
Ron froze. That wasn't what he had intended to say.
Confusion crept in, but before he could process it further, a small chuckle escaped Edward. The man laughed lightly, as if he was no stranger to hearing Ron's formal tone.
"Ha! I told you—to pay some respect to me kiddo, when you're calling me, address me with Sir!" Edward teased, his tone playful rather than scolding. A mischievous grin tugged at his lips, suggesting this wasn't the first time something like this had happened.
Ron's mouth moved again before his mind could catch up.
"Ugh… fine… So… what are my orders today, Sir… uh, Sir Edward?"
This time, Edward nodded, and the smile on his face slowly faded, replaced by a more serious expression.
"His Majesty wants you to come to his tent. He has something he wants to discuss with you personally."
Ron swallowed hard. His heartbeat quickened. His Majesty? Who was that? Now he's remember that Edward once mentioned "His majesty" last night.
Even with his head swirling with questions, His head nodded and then Ron's legs moved without hesitation—as if his body remembered the path that his mind had yet to fully comprehend.
Like a deeply embedded instinct, he walked with a sense of certainty that felt both foreign and familiar.
It didn't take long before he arrived in front of a tent that stood out among the rest. It was much larger in size, adorned with golden embroidery along the fabric, and a royal flag fluttered gently above it.
There was no doubt—this was the place where someone of great authority resided.
Ron stared at the tent for a moment, his chest beating slowly but steadily. There was something behind that curtain—answers, perhaps… or even more questions.
Holding his breath for a second, Ron reached out his hand and drew back the tent's curtain.
The scent of burning wood and spices greeted him, blending with the still-chilly morning air. The atmosphere inside felt warm, yet filled with an unseen pressure—like stepping into a room where great decisions were made.
At the center of the room, a young man sat on a carved wooden chair, his posture straight and his gaze piercing through any trace of doubt.
Golden hair cascaded down to his shoulders, and his sharp blue eyes seemed to reflect the light of dawn. Yet, Ron wasn't familiar with him—the figure referred to as "Your Majesty" by Edward.
But somehow, he felt a strange sense of familiarity toward him. Was it his own feeling, or something from the original owner of this body?
"Loxley?" The young king's voice rang light but laden with authority. "You've come at last. Come Sit down."
Loxley? Ron was puzzled by the young king's words—why did he call him Loxley instead of Robin, the real name of this body's original owner?
But Ron's body followed the command without question. Even though his heart was uneasy, his body moved as if everything was completely natural.
His gaze slowly examined the figure before him—the young king whose aura of dignity was undeniable.
The armor the man wore looked sturdy yet elegant, crafted from plates of silver-gold that reflected the morning light with a quiet glow. On the chest, a large red cross was clearly engraved—bold and striking, as if declaring his unwavering faith and purpose.
But Ron's attention didn't stop there. His eyes were drawn to the young king's right shoulder, where a carving of a lion's head was mounted.
The lion was crafted with extraordinary detail—its jaws open as if in mid-roar, its eyes sharp, and its mane flowing like a blaze of fire.
Made of gold-plated metal, the carving wasn't just decoration, but a symbol of greatness and courage—a symbol of a king who not only led but also fought on the front lines.
A lion and a cross...
Seeing it, Ron felt a strange flicker of memory that didn't belong to him.
There was something about this man's appearance—the cross-bearing armor and the lion head on his shoulder—that reminded him of Richard the Lionheart, a figure he had seen… not in real life, but on screen or in digital records.
'Richard the Lionheart… huh?' he thought quietly.
Richard, the legendary king famed for his bravery in the Crusades.
But the longer he looked, the clearer it became that this figure wasn't exactly the same.
The armor this young man wore differed from what Ron remembered—more artistic than purely built for war.
His face also looked younger, with smooth features and the appearance of a noble beginner rather than a battle-hardened veteran.
Yet those blue eyes… and that lion on his shoulder… still left a trace—a trace that couldn't be ignored.