Awakening in a Fat Noble's Body

The void swallowed Leonard whole—no light, no sound, only the echo of his final thought: Not yet. But the darkness shifted. Cold became heat, sterile air thickened with the cloying stench of rot and wine. Sensations slammed into him: a sticky cheek pressed against congealed gravy, fingers buried in a lump of mold-speckled cheese. Am I… eating? His new body convulsed, retching, but the limbs were alien, sluggish. A voice hissed in the dark, ancient and ravenous: "Consume. Grow. Devour." He tried to scream, but the corpse-like lungs only wheezed.

Then, a spark. A thread of consciousness yanked him upward—into flesh, into filth, into ruin.

***

Alistair lurched upright, his jowls quivering as half-chewed sausage spilled from his lips. The room reeked of sour milk and decay. Sunlight stabbed through stained velvet curtains, illuminating a nightmare: a banquet table littered with gnawed bones, flies buzzing over rancid meat pies, his own hands—puffy, glistening with grease—clutching a chicken leg like a scepter.

What in the actual hell?

He gagged, scrambling backward, his bulk toppling a tower of empty wine bottles. The clatter summoned hurried footsteps.

A young maid burst in, her apron smudged, eyes widening in horror. "M-My Lord!" Cecily stammered, recoiling as if he were a feral beast. "You're… awake? B-But the physician said you wouldn't…"

Alistair's pulse roared. Not Leonard. Not anymore.

He seized a golden goblet, its surface warped but reflective enough to reveal the truth: a bloated, pasty face framed by lank hair, lips stained red from wine. A monster. A caricature of excess.

Before he could speak, the door swung open again. A silver-haired man strode in, his tailored doublet impeccable, eyes glinting like daggers veiled in silk.

"Dear nephew," Lord Berrick purred, "how… remarkable to see you conscious." The disdain beneath his smile was almost artistic.

Alistair's mind reeled—nephew? Slothful Duke?—as fragmented memories surged: feasts, sneers, a life drowned in decadence.

The stench of the room sharpened, bile rising in his throat. Before he could speak, the maid Cecily edged forward, her trembling hands offering a damp cloth. "M-My Lord, let me…"

Berrick cut her off with a raised palm, his gaze never leaving Alistair.

"Leave us," he commanded.

Cecily fled, but not before shooting Alistair a glance—part pity, part defiance.

The door clicked shut. Berrick's mask slipped. "You've embarrassed this house long enough," he hissed. "If you insist on surviving, at least have the decency to die quietly next time."

Alistair's skull throbbed as memories crystallized: Alistair du Montfort, 23, heir to the Montfort dukedom—if he could outlive his reputation as a wine-soaked glutton. His father's cold disdain. Edward, his brother, the golden heir apparent. And Berrick, his uncle, circling like a vulture over a carcass.

"Cat got your tongue?" Berrick sneered, snapping his fingers. "Or did you swallow that too?"

Alistair forced his doughy face into a vacant grin, mimicking his predecessor's idiocy. "Uncle…! What a… surprise." His voice was a stranger's—nasal, wheezing.

Berrick's lip curled. "Your father expects you at the solstice banquet. Unless you'd prefer to wallow here?" He flicked a grape off the table, watching it roll into the filth. "Though I suppose this is your natural habitat."

Alistair's chest burned with Leonard's old fury, but he let his chin drool, muttering, "Banquet… yes. Food. Good."

Satisfied, Berrick turned to leave. "Try not to choke."

When the door slammed, Alistair slumped, trembling. Pathetic body. Pathetic life. But beneath the self-loathing, something primal stirred—a hunger that had nothing to do with the rot around him.

Cecily slipped back in, her voice barely a whisper. "My Lord… I've drawn a bath. If you… wish it." Her eyes held a flicker of something unspoken. Allies are scarce here, he realized.

"Yes," he grunted, heaving himself upright. "And Cecily—burn this room."

Her startled smile was the first spark of hope in the dark.