Hugustine

Tied down his entire life by the perils of mediocrity,  Jarod sin is diagnosed with a terminal illness cutting his life expectancy at just twenty six years old. 

With a six months prognosis, he wallows about his predicament while taking a leave from work to explore bits of the world before his death, sadly he is mugged by a thief on a cold evening, proving once more how mediocre and trash he really was, but everything changed when he opened his eyes. 

He had been transmigrated into the body of Milo von Brithuels, third son of a count in a fantasy land, just like the one he used to read about, now armed with a new life he vows to escape the clutches of mediocrity and achieve something for the first time.

Rise of a transmigrated mediocre nobleman

The journey back to Brithuel was quiet.

The air inside the carriage was thick with exhaustion, grief, and something unspoken. Jem sat beside me, her small frame unnervingly still, her hands resting in her lap. Her eyes, once bright with mischief, stared ahead, empty and detached.

She hadn't spoken much since we left. She hadn't cried since Natasha's body went cold in my arms.

Mark sat across from us, his gaze flickering between Jem and me, as if debating whether to say something. He didn't. He understood that some wounds fester in silence, that words could never be enough.

Secrust rode ahead on horseback, keeping a firm grip on Natasha's body, wrapped in a heavy cloth. His shoulders were rigid, his back straight—posture forced into discipline, as if holding himself together through sheer will alone.

I exhaled softly, leaning against the cold window. The weight of everything settled on me like a boulder. Natasha. Her child. The blood on my hands.

The trauma that seeps gradually