Awakening in the Ashes

The first thing I felt was cold.

A deep, bone-chilling cold that crawled through my limbs, pressing against my skin like a second layer. My body ached as if I had been trampled by a herd of warhorses, and my chest burned with every shallow breath I took. There was the faint scent of damp wood, old straw, and something metallic—blood?

My eyes fluttered open, revealing a ceiling made of rough wooden planks, stained dark with age. It wasn't the grand stonework of my family's estate, nor was it the silken canopy of my chambers. The flickering light of a candle barely illuminated the small, crumbling room around me. A single, rickety table stood near the far wall, an old wooden bowl resting on top of it. A chair, missing one leg, lay discarded nearby. The room was barely large enough to fit the narrow cot I was lying on.

This... this wasn't my home.

Memories rushed in all at once—a blade at my throat, a familiar sneer, betrayal painted across my brother's face. Pain. Darkness. And then...

I gasped, pushing myself up onto my elbows, but the sudden movement sent sharp agony lancing through my ribs. My arms trembled under my own weight, and for the first time, I noticed the thinness of my wrists and the way my once-strong fingers shook like those of a sickly old man. My heart pounded against my ribs as I lifted my hands in front of me, staring at them.

These weren't my hands.

The callouses from sword training were gone, replaced by pale, malnourished skin stretched too tightly over bony knuckles. My nails were uneven and cracked at the edges, as if I had been working with them for years without care.

I clenched my fists, trying to steady my breathing. What the hell happened to me?

Before I could make sense of it, the door creaked open.

A hunched, elderly man stepped inside, carrying a steaming bowl in his hands. His face was lined with deep wrinkles, his gray beard unkempt, and his eyes—sharp, calculating—studied me the way a hunter observes wounded prey. He didn't seem surprised to see me awake, but there was something... something cautious in the way he approached.

"Good. You're finally up," the old man muttered, his voice gravelly yet steady. He set the bowl on the table, rubbing his hands together as he exhaled. "Took you long enough."

I stared at him, my throat dry. "W-who are you?" My voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

The man scoffed, crossing his arms. "I should be asking you that, boy. You've been unconscious for two days, muttering all sorts of nonsense in your sleep." He tilted his head. "Whoever you were dreaming about, you sounded like a damned noble."

A chill crept down my spine.

I swallowed hard, glancing down at my body again. The clothes draped over me were rough-spun wool, patched at the seams. Nothing like the tailored silk and embroidered coats I once wore. No rings adorned my fingers, and no familiar weight of my family's sign rested against my hand.

A noble.

That's what I was. But now...

I wet my lips, forcing my mind to focus. "Where am I?"

The old man exhaled through his nose, eyeing me carefully. "Somewhere safe—for now. Ravenmere."

Ravenmere. The name sent a jolt through me, like a door unlocking deep within my mind. I knew this place. A border town, far from the capital, known for its crumbling roads, abandoned farmlands, and the desperate souls who clung to survival. A place so insignificant that even tax collectors rarely bothered to visit.

And yet...

I shouldn't be here.

My name was Leon Drayven, second son of Duke Alistair Drayven, heir to one of the most powerful houses in the kingdom. I was supposed to be dead—I remember dying.

Then why was I here? Why was I alive?

A painful pulse throbbed behind my eyes, and suddenly, a foreign sensation surged through my skull—like ice-cold water being poured directly into my brain. My vision blurred, and something—no, someone—spoke.

【Tyrant's System Activated.】

I inhaled sharply. The voice wasn't coming from the old man. It wasn't coming from anywhere. It was inside my own mind.

A blue, glowing text flickered in my vision, faint but unmistakable.

【Initializing...】

I barely had time to process it before a heavy knock echoed through the room.

The old man stiffened. His entire posture shifted—tense, on guard. His gaze flicked toward the door, then back to me.

"Stay quiet," he muttered under his breath.

Another knock, harder this time.

Then a deep, gruff voice from outside:

"Leon Drayven! Open this damn door!"

The name struck me like a hammer to the chest.

They knew who I was.

The old man's eyes narrowed as he turned toward the door, muttering a curse under his breath. He didn't look surprised—only irritated. I didn't like that. It meant he knew more than he was letting on.

My fingers tightened around the rough blanket, my mind racing. If someone was calling for me by name in a place like Ravenmere, it meant one of two things—they were here to kill me, or they wanted something from me. Neither option sat well.

The knocking turned into pounding, the wooden door rattling on its weak hinges.

"Damn it," the old man muttered. He turned his head slightly, just enough to give me a look. "You can stand, boy?"

I nodded, though my muscles still felt weak. Whatever state this body was in, I had no choice but to endure it. I wasn't about to lie down and play dead.

He exhaled sharply. "Then get up."

I forced myself to move, pushing off the cot with shaky arms. My legs nearly gave out beneath me, but I caught myself against the table, my breathing uneven. Pathetic. I gritted my teeth, steadying myself as best I could.

The old man didn't wait for me to recover. He stomped toward the door and yanked it open.

A tall, broad-shouldered man stood outside, his face shadowed under a hood. Leather armor, iron pauldrons, a belt lined with weapons. Not a soldier—mercenary, more likely. His boots were caked in mud, his gloved hand still raised from knocking.

The moment his eyes landed on me, his mouth twisted into a smirk.

"Well, would you look at that? The bastard really is alive."

I didn't recognize him. But the way he said it, the way he was certain—he had been looking for me.

The old man scowled. "What do you want, Kane?"

Kane. The name stirred something in my newly awakened mind. Notorious bounty hunter. Ruthless. Efficient. A man who didn't waste his time chasing shadows.

That meant someone had put a price on my head.

Kane's smirk widened as he leaned against the doorframe. "Oh, nothing much. Just came to deliver a message." He tilted his head, eyes flicking toward me.

"You've got exactly three days to die quietly, or your head's going to fetch a damn fine price."