Chapter 2 : Renewed Vow

Nicholas stood in the barn, hay still clinging to his borrowed body, as the maid's words "Young Lord Nicholai" echoed in his ears. He opened his mouth to correct her, to insist his name was Nicholas, but a jolt ripped through his skull before he could speak. His vision blurred, and a torrent of memories alien, vivid, and heavy crashed into him like a storm breaking a dam. He staggered, clutching the wooden stall for support, as the life of Nicholai Verenth unfolded in his mind.

Nicholai, the third son of House Verenth, was a shadow in his own family. Born with a flicker of mana so weak it barely registered, he was a disappointment from the start. No evaluation was needed to see it—his siblings and father knew it, the servants whispered it. Eldric, the eldest, wielded earth magic like a hammer; Sylia, the second, bent it with a serpent's grace. But Nicholai? Nothing. A noble in name, a null in power. Yet his mother, Lady Elara, had cradled him close, her love a shield against the world. She called him her "gentle star," teaching him songs and stories when spells wouldn't come. That love, though, was a spark to his siblings' jealousy especially Sylia, who saw every hug as a plot, every kind word as a bid to steal the house's future from her.

Then Elara died. A fever took her three years ago, swift and merciless, leaving Nicholai alone at thirteen. His father, Gideon, buried himself in ledgers and council meetings, keeping House Verenth afloat while the light faded from his eyes. Without Elara's buffer, Nicholai's hell began. Eldric, already a rising star, looked at him with pity trash not worth tormenting, beneath even contempt. But Sylia? She was a devil in silk. She'd trip him in the halls, spill ink on his books, mock him before the servants: "The runt who'd shame us all." Once, she locked him in the cellar for a day, laughing as he pounded the door. Nicholai learned to hate—her, them, himself.

He vowed to rise. To trample everyone who sneered, to claw his way to the pinnacle of strength. Mana wouldn't obey him, so he turned elsewhere—alchemy texts, forgotten tomes, nights hunched over cauldrons in the estate's dusty library. He brewed potions that fizzled, studied runes that stayed dark. 

Day after day, night after night, he pushed his body and mind past breaking. It was fruitless. His mana stayed a whisper, his strength a joke. Two days ago, at sixteen, he collapsed in that barn exhausted, broken, dead. Anger burned in his last breath, regret choking him as he faded, longing for a mother gone, sadness drowning any hope.

The flood receded. Nicholas gasped, back in the barn, the maid Mira watching him with wide eyes. He didn't know Nicholai, not really, but he felt him. The rage, the hate, the weight of a life discarded. No joy, no light just a boy's desperate resolve to prove himself. Nicholas clenched his fists, nails biting his palms. He'd lived small on Earth safe, mundane, a cog in a machine. Nicholai's fire, though dark, lit something in him. "Rest easy," he whispered, voice steady. "I'll carry it. I'll reach the top for you, and for me."

He straightened, his resolve hardened. Nicholai's dream was his now: to stand above them all. But he added his own—to unravel that book, that void, the system that dragged him here. This life was a second chance, and he wouldn't waste it on mediocrity. Nicholas was dead. From this moment, he was Nicholai Verenth, and he'd climb to the pinnacle or die trying.

His stomach growled, loud and insistent. He glanced at Mira, cheeks flushing. Before he could ask, she smiled, lifting the tray she'd brought. "Bread and cheese, my lord. You'll need strength for the road."

Nicholai returned the smile, softer than he meant. "Thanks, Mira." He skipped the washbasin as hunger trumped hygiene and followed her to the dining hall, hay still dusting his trousers.

The hall was grand but cold long oak table, high windows, tapestries of Verenth victories fading on the walls. Only two sat there: Nicholai at one end, his father, Gideon, at the other. 

Sylia had left for Luminthrone days ago, her sharp tongue absent. Eldric was long gone, carving his name as an archmage—the third youngest in history, behind Prince Eric Althyr and the legendary Aesterion, one of the six Heavenly Mages whose power shook continents. 

Nicholai barely noticed their absence. His eyes flicked to Gideon—tall, graying, face etched with lines of duty. The man ate in silence, fork moving with mechanical grace, not sparing a glance.

Nicholai tore into his meal—warm bread, sharp cheese, a slab of smoked meat. He wolfed it down, crumbs scattering, hunger drowning out decorum. Gideon watched, expression unreadable, but said nothing. 

When Nicholai finished, he stood, brushing his hands on his shirt. He walked past his father without a word, boots echoing on the stone floor. *You ignored him,* he thought. *I'll ignore you. A father that didn't know his own son died for two days, you deserve no face * A petty mirror, but it felt right.

Gideon's voice broke the silence as Nicholai reached the door. "Mira." The maid turned, tray still in hand. "Is something happening today? Something… special?"

Mira hesitated. "It's Young Lord Nicholai's mana evaluation, my lord. In Luminthrone."

Gideon paused, fork halfway to his mouth. "That's why he's so eager he can't give face to his own father?" Before Mira could answer, he laughed a dry, hollow sound. "How pointless. Well, good for a young man to see a bigger stage." He resumed eating, dismissing it with a wave.

Nicholai didn't hear. He was already in his room. small chamber off the main house, sparse but his. A basin of water waited; he splashed his face, scrubbing off barn dust. In a wardrobe, he found clothes, nothing too formal, nothing too plain. A dark green tunic, fitted breeches, a leather belt with a simple clasp.

He dressed, tugging the laces tight, and caught his reflection in a cracked mirror. Thin arms, pale skin, dark hair too long and messy. A boy's body, not a man's. "Lots of work to do," he muttered, frowning at his scrawny frame. But for now, Luminthrone called.

A knock jolted him. "Enter," he said, and Mira stepped in, her apron crisp despite the morning's rush. "Time to go, my lord. The carriage is ready any later, and you'll miss the evaluation."

Nicholai nodded, turning to follow, but froze. His eyes locked on Mira—then past her. Blue text shimmered beside her, faint but clear, like when he'd first woken:

```

[Stats]

Name: Mira Tallen

Level: 8/100

Age: 45 

Race: Human

Height: 5'4"

Weight: 130 lbs

Hair Color: Brown

Mana Capacity: 180/180

```

He blinked, mouth dry. The system was back, reading her like a book. Surface details, just a glance, but there it was. Nicholai had thought he was just hallucinating the first time but now there was no denying what was in front of him. 

Mira tilted her head, concerned creased her brow. "My lord? Are you well?"

"Yeah," he managed, shaking it off. "Let's go." He stepped past her, heart racing. The evaluation, the city, this world it was real now. And so was this power.