Adapting to the new life

A warm embrace of morning light woke me up from what seemed to be a deep slumber.

I never overslept, except when I was drunk from parties in the office.

I instinctively reached out for my phone, careful not to lift my ass off the bed. Just wanted to call my PA before he started flooding my inbox.

But something felt off.

The ceiling I expected to see, plain white, minimalist design, and a sleek, professionally embedded central air conditioner, wasn't there.

"Five more minutes," I mumbled.

"Fuck, where the hell am I?" I screamed.

Because what greeted me upon waking wasn't the clean, reserved interior I'd personally approved with my engineer for my private suite.

It was a 5.3-meter high ceiling with a falcon-shaped crest so massive it practically qualified as architectural arrogance.

Calling it interior decor felt like an insult. This wasn't interior design. This was a coffer. A cathedral-worthy, ego-stroking, imperial-level coffer.

I slipped out of bed, tension buzzing under my skin, instincts screaming at me to bolt, to find someone, anyone.

But I pulled myself back.

Charging into unknown territory, unarmed and unsure of intentions, isn't strategy. It's suicide.

My eyes scanned the room, landing on a table that looked like it had been plucked straight out of a royal showroom.

A tall, crystal-clear vase held a fresh bouquet, vibrant and fragrant, too perfectly arranged to be anything short of a statement.

The table itself was carved from rich, polished wood, each corner etched with delicate patterns that probably cost some poor artisan a month of their life.

And seated beside it was a chair, upholstered in a bold fabric that matched the embroidered cloth draped across the tabletop with almost obsessive precision.

This doesn't look like the kind of room you'd use to tie someone up for ransom.

Hell, I'm not even restrained.

The windows are wide open, sunlight pouring in freely. No locks, no bars, nothing to suggest captivity.

No, this isn't some hostage situation.

Whoever owns this room either has no interest in keeping me prisoner or they're stupidly confident I won't, or can't, run.

With that logic barely holding my anxiety at bay, I slowly began gathering the courage to approach the door, assuming of course, it wasn't locked.

Every step I took landed on an absurdly plush carpet, the kind that whispered luxury with every inch. It felt like walking across delicate petals, soft and almost ticklish.

Honestly, those eight steps were the most comfortable of my life.

"Must be a broadloom," I mused, glancing down. "Who the hell buys one big enough to cover a ballroom-sized bedroom?"

My mind wandered to the handful of lunatics rich enough to pull something like this off.

"Probably Noah from the Blythe family," I guessed.

The guy has an antique fetish and a wallet fat enough to indulge it. Maybe I passed out at one of his parties again.

It was the only explanation that made sense.

I couldn't even recall what I'd been doing yesterday, but a hangover from drinking with someone like Noah seemed plausible.

Just as I reached for the ornate doorknob, a soft knock echoed from the other side.

And like that, every ounce of courage I'd painstakingly gathered drained from my body.

Gone. Evaporated.

I froze in place, my hand hovering mid-air, deciding it was smarter to wait and let whoever was on the other side make the first move.

"Young Master," came a voice from the other side. Smooth, clear, and composed, yet carrying the gentle warmth of a woman in her early twenties. "I trust you are awake. If permitted, I would like to assist you in preparing for the meal arranged by His Grace, Lord Everard."

Everard.

The moment my mind grasped the sound of that name, my legs began to tremble.

My hand instinctively gripped the doorknob, partly to steady myself, partly in fear that the door might swing open and bring me face to face with him.

Not out of terror, but out of sheer pressure.

Because Everard isn't just any name. It's the name I gave to the father of the former lord of House Gyrfald.

The man I envisioned while writing the novel.

A name I crafted to belong to someone unshakable. A paragon of composure and quiet strength.

Wait, yes, I remember now.

I was in my room, ready to write the opening lines of my first ever novel, the story I wanted to tell, and then, what?

A sharp pain, my chest locking up, and—

My breath hitched. The composure I'd barely begun to build crumbled.

The reality I had mistaken for some extravagant prank slipped out of reach like sand through my fingers.

My lungs strained for air that refused to satisfy.

Adrenaline surged again, burning in my veins, and I tightened my grip on the doorknob like letting go would mean letting go of life itself.

"Young master, shall I excuse my—"

"You are late. What could possibly be more important than tending to me, especially when it's my father I am supposed to meet?"

I responded with a poker face, devoid of emotion. The same one I wore in boardrooms when negotiations turned into silent wars.

My tone was steady, stern, unwavering, with no trace of anxiety or hesitation.

This was more than just a facade. It was a weapon.

One of the many tools that had earned me a reputation far more intimidating than most second-generation heirs and even a good chunk of the old-guard business titans.

I wasn't feared solely because of what I knew. It was how I moved, how I watched, how I spoke.

I had shadowed my father through years of mergers, deals, and corporate battles, absorbing the unspoken language of power.

And now, here I was, drawing on those same lessons. Not in a boardroom, but in a world where etiquette, titles, and swords ruled the game.

"Ahh, I-I... my apologies, young master. Madam Seraphina had me supervise the dining hall. I will nev—"

"I understand. But it is getting late. If you don't hurry up, I will have to do the same thing with my father as you are doing with me. That is, making excuses."

I said with a tone that implied both acceptance and reprimand.

"O-of course, young master. At once."

Since the maid seemed flustered, I could safely assume she wouldn't be speaking for a while and would keep her focus on making my appearance presentable.

Did I doubt the whole "young master" thing?

Of course I did.

It sounded like the setup to a very elaborate prank.

So instead of responding with a casual "come in," I opened the door myself.

I needed proof, undeniable proof, that this wasn't some drunken dream or twisted prank.

A name like Everard could've been a coincidence.

But if the appearance of the maid matched the image I had in mind while drafting my novel, then maybe, just maybe, this was real.

And there she was.

Standing before me was a beautiful girl with a sharp, professional demeanor.

Her crisp, immaculately pressed uniform and unwavering gaze spoke of discipline, confidence, and pride in her role.

She looked exactly like how I imagined Clara Finch, every detail, down to the subtle grace in her posture.

Then, as if the world itself wanted to mock my disbelief, a transparent window materialized beside her.

It wasn't made of glass or any kind of physical material.

It just appeared, right there in midair, suspended like a notification panel in a mobile game. One that clearly had no business appearing in the real world.

CLARA FINCH

Race: Human

strength:71 Grade: B-

Speed: 83 Grade: A-

Endurance: 54 Grade:D

Combat power: C

Intelligence:14 Grade: A

Comment: Nah!! Dude, naaahh! This girl is no maid...

I blinked, slowly.

Then again, a little faster.

And again.

The words didn't change.

I shut my eyes tight, counted to five, then reopened them.

Still there.

No app, no projector, no visible mechanism.

This wasn't augmented reality. It was just…reality.

"Young master?"

Clara was watching me.

I realized I had been staring blankly into space while my brain tried to crawl out of my skull and scream into the void.

"I see you've taken a liking to the air," I muttered, finally turning toward her. "I've always enjoyed a good breeze full of existential panic."

She tilted her head ever so slightly. "Shall I prepare your clothes now?"

"Yes," I said, suppressing the urge to curl up into a ball and cry.

As she moved to the wardrobe, I watched her work.

Every motion was efficient, graceful, precise.

She moved like a woman who'd been trained since birth to serve nobility, and not in the creepy cultish way.

It was elegant. Natural.

And, of course, terrifying.

I stepped closer to the mirror, my reflection staring back with a face I hadn't seen in any of my business photos.

Sharp cheekbones, pale skin, and a head of golden blonde hair that managed to look unbrushed and annoyingly majestic at the same time.

My eyes were crimson. Not metaphorically.

Literally crimson.

They shimmered like I was cosplaying some kind of anime prince who says things like "How dare you speak to me, peasant," right before getting punched in the face.

"Is something troubling you, young master?"

"Besides the fact that I may or may not have reincarnated into a fictional universe I created after dying of a stress-induced heart attack? No. All good here."

I didn't say that out loud.

Instead, I replied, "The weather feels different."

Clara glanced at the open window. "Yes. The first snow arrived earlier this year. His Grace mentioned it may be a sign of the new tides in the Empire."

Ah, yes. Of course.

The new tides.

That definitely helped calm my nerves.

A part of me still clung to the idea that this was some absurd dream.

That at any moment I'd wake up, find myself back in my apartment with my unfinished manuscript open and my coffee going cold beside me.

But as Clara began to help me dress, guiding my arms into fine garments that were clearly tailored to fit my new body, the cold reality settled in.

This wasn't a dream.

It was too vivid. Too detailed.

And I'd never put this much effort into dream interiors.

"You will be expected to greet His Grace in the southern atrium. Please remain composed. Lord Everard prefers calmness in his presence."

Calmness.

Right.

Like I wasn't seconds away from asking if I had access to a panic room.

"Understood," I replied.

My voice came out cool and flat. Business mode.

Old habits die hard, and apparently, follow you into fictional worlds.

Once I was fully dressed, Clara handed me a pair of gloves. Not just any gloves. These were black leather with the Gyrfald crest embroidered in deep crimson thread.

Classy. Intimidating. Probably expensive enough to bankrupt a mid-sized kingdom.

She moved to adjust my collar and said, "The last time you met His Grace, you were… quite upset. Please remember, you are no longer a child."

I wasn't sure what history Hugo had with his father, but from the nervous tension in her voice, it hadn't been warm and fuzzy.

"I'll behave," I said, because it seemed like the least suspicious thing to say.

Clara gave a respectful nod, stepped back, and gestured toward the door.

"Young master, shall we proceed?"

And so, with my new identity strapped tight like a bulletproof vest, I walked out of the room.

The hallway outside my room was a cathedral of wealth.

Polished marble floors reflected the golden light of crystal chandeliers.

Paintings lined the walls—some of them actual oil portraits of people who probably didn't smile even once in their lives.

Tall windows let in soft white sunlight. It glanced off every surface, making the whole corridor glow like some divine Pinterest board for medieval interior design.

I walked in silence beside Clara.

I'd expected my mind to race. To spiral.

But instead, it was quiet. Sharp.

That same laser-cut focus I used to feel before a merger meeting.

When investors stared daggers and sharks circled the conference table—

—and I walked in with one goal: to win.

Not with strength. With presence.

And presence? I had in spades.

Clara slowed.

We were here.

Two knights stood by the double doors—straight-backed, armored, armed.

They eyed me like one wrong breath would get me pinned to the marble.

Clara turned, lips parting to say something—probably a final word of warning or comfort.

I didn't give her the chance.

With one hand, I adjusted my cuff.

Straightened my coat.

And said, flatly, "Clara."

She blinked.

"Yes, young master?"

"Open the door."

She hesitated.

Not out of fear.

Out of surprise.

Because the voice I used wasn't asking.

It was commanding.

Corporate-clean. Crisp. Laced with steel.

Clara nodded slowly, lips parting just a fraction.

Something about me had changed.

Even she could see it.

I looked past her—straight at the guards.

Not a flicker of nervousness. Not even a blink.

"Stand aside," I added coolly, "Let's not keep the Duke waiting."

The knights didn't move.

Not right away.

They stared—first at me, then at each other—like they were suddenly questioning what they'd just heard.

I stepped forward before anyone could second-guess it.

My footsteps echoed like punctuation.

I didn't falter. Didn't pause.

This wasn't Hugo, the son who'd brought shame to his name.

This was William Crutz—hostile-takeover edition.

Back from the dead with a new face, a noble title, and absolutely zero patience for walking on eggshells.

And as the knights shifted aside and Clara reached for the door handle, I saw her pause—just briefly—looking at me as if she didn't quite recognize the man beside her.

Good.

Because neither did I.