A faint, hollow wind drifted through the open window as Reyn Weeftn awakened. The first breath he took felt charged with unfamiliar scents: old wood, candlewax, and that faint, lingering sandalwood sweetness that clung to the back of his throat. His head throbbed dully as if he’d surfaced from a dream too heavy to bear. Slowly, he sat upright, the bedsheets slipping from his chest. Cool air brushed over his sweat-dampened skin. His heart hammered unsteadily, trying to find a rhythm amid his confusion.

  The room around him was large and dimly lit. Sunlight, muted by hollow-carved shutters, fell in narrow stripes across the floor. Dust motes danced in those slender beams, swirling and shifting. His eyes roamed over carved wooden bedposts, each shaped like twisting vines. The walls bore rough-hewn paintings that depicted scenes he couldn’t quite decipher—perhaps hunting parties or old battles blurred by time.

  Near the foot of the bed hung a longsword on a simple rack. Rust flecked its surface; its leather grip looked cracked and stiff, as though it hadn’t been wielded in years. Beneath the sword, an oil portrait stared back: a grim-faced nobleman with hollow cheeks, dressed in a stiff collar and a tunic of outdated fashion. The painter had captured something haunting in that man’s eyes, an unspoken resignation to fate.

  Nothing about this place belonged to the world Reyn knew. Where were the familiar hum of a fridge, the muffled sounds of traffic outside his apartment window, the glow of a streetlamp? Instead, everything here felt archaic and austere—heavier, older, and weighed down by centuries of hardship. It was like stepping into a centuries-old memory, the kind that lingered in dark corners of a dilapidated mansion.

  Reyn swallowed hard, trying to steady himself. He had been someone else before. Someone ordinary. He remembered dull commutes, budget takeout meals, the hum of fluorescent lights at work, and escapism through games on a DIY laptop. Now, he occupied a new body—thin and tall, with a different sort of weariness etched into its bones. His fingers, when he flexed them, were pale and slightly calloused. The nails were uneven. Had this body seen labor, sword practice, or something else entirely?

  He closed his eyes, and when he opened them again, memories not his own flooded in like a rushing tide. He saw bleak fields stretching out under a cold sun, half-starved villagers toiling in soil that refused to yield. He smelled rotten hay and damp earth. He heard distant howls echoing across fields at twilight. Words rose and fell in his mind, clashing and overlapping: Dulips Principality, Black Water Territory, savage tribes, beasts of the northern wilds, cruel winters, endless cycles of dread. Names of people he didn’t know settled into half-familiar places in his mind: old stewards, minor knights sworn to his service, desperate peasants who had nowhere else to go.

  Among these churning fragments of memory, one name stood out clearly. Reyn Weeftn. That was him now, he realized. A baron. He was a baron in this place, a lord of a territory known for failure and death. The Black Water Territory: a cursed land at the northern frontier of the Dulips Principality. A realm of cold winds and hungry bellies, of raiders slipping through the borders each winter, of beasts lurking in the forests beyond. He felt the legacy of this land pressing on his shoulders like a heavy cloak, itchy with old shame and fear.

  Many lords had come here before him. Many had died, their bones buried beneath the dirt. They called this the Cursed Death Territory—a mortal trap for discarded noble scions. He saw their faces flicker in his newfound memories: stern men with proud mustaches, timid youths trembling behind chainmail, haggard veterans nursing old wounds. All had tried, and all had failed, succumbing to invaders or the slow rot of distress. Now he, an illegitimate son cast off by his family, had been sent here like fodder to a beast’s maw. How long would he last?

  Reyn inhaled, trying to quell the surge of panic. Wringing his hands and weeping would serve no purpose. He was here, alive, and inexplicably in this world. He did not know how or why. Perhaps it was a cosmic joke, or some strange twist of fate.

  Either way, he had to face the reality of the Black Water Territory. The farms lay stunted under pale skies. The people, half-dead in spirit, clung to this patch of earth because they had nowhere else to go. Bandits and savage tribes would descend like wolves at the first sign of weakness. Winter would come soon, bringing long nights and hungry, desperate foes.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  He turned his gaze toward the window. Through the carved shutters, he glimpsed a bleak horizon. The sun was rising, painting the fields in weak, golden watery colors. Wooden huts dotted the landscape, their roofs sagging under the weight of damp straw. A handful of villagers could be seen moving sluggishly, like worn-out cogs in a broken machine. Could he help them? Or would he fail like all those before him?

  His train of thought was broken by a soft knock at the door. Reyn stiffened, hastily pulling down his sleeve to cover something odd on his arm. “Come in,” he managed, voice only slightly trembling.

  The heavy door creaked open, and an older man stepped through. His hair, once dark, was now mostly gray and thinning. He wore a neatly pressed tunic and trousers, simple but dignified, and moved with careful, deliberate steps. Reyn’s borrowed memories told him this was Dohn, the castle’s butler. Dohn bowed slightly, his expression a mixture of respect and subdued anxiety.

  “My lord,” he said softly, “your breakfast is ready in the main hall.”

  My lord. The words still felt foreign on Reyn’s tongue. He forced himself to nod, remembering that he must appear composed. “Thank you, Dohn,” he replied. “I’ll be there shortly.”

  The butler left with a quiet rustle of fabric, leaving Reyn alone again. For a moment, silence pressed in. Then Reyn let out a shaky breath and stood. His legs wobbled slightly. He took a few steps around the room, testing the floorboards. They creaked in places but held firm. There was a small desk near the window. On it sat a tarnished brass mirror that captured his reflection: golden-black curls framed a gaunt, pale face with sharp features. He looked younger than he felt—somewhere in his early twenties. But there was a deep weariness in those eyes. They were almost golden, reflecting the dim light oddly, giving him an intense and unsettling gaze.

  Something tugged at his awareness—some strange new sense that had come with his crossing. He rolled up his sleeve and examined his arm. At first glance, it was just a black shape, irregular and dark against his pale skin. But if he focused, he could see details that shouldn’t be possible: tiny window frames, a miniature door, shelves arrayed with objects like relics from his old world. A Game Shop from his past life, compressed into a symbol no larger than a thumbprint.

  A quiet hum seemed to emanate from that mark. Reyn held his arm closer to the light. A spark of energy flared inside him, making him gasp. He pulled back, heart pounding. Something was there, hidden in his flesh. Could this be his edge in this hostile land?

  He turned to the window again, mind racing. If this mark could offer him power akin to the games he used to play, he might stand a chance. But how to activate it? He tried focusing, picturing himself reaching into that black mark, pulling on whatever strange energy lay inside. For a moment, he felt resistance, like trying to open a rusted door. He strained, envisioning a store menu from a computer screen. Nothing happened.

  He sighed and lowered his sleeve. Perhaps it required time, or a trigger he had not yet discovered. For now, he would keep it secret. He didn’t want anyone—whoever they might be—to know he possessed something so strange.

  Outside, a gust of wind rattled the shutters. He caught a glimpse of movement in the courtyard below. From this height, he could see rough cobblestones surrounded by half-collapsed stone walls. A pair of guards in worn chainmail paced slowly, spears in hand. They looked underfed and uneasy, as if expecting trouble at any moment.

  The castle itself was small and likely in disrepair. A handful of servants and soldiers, a few cramped storerooms of provisions, and not much else. Reyn straightened his shoulders. He did not know why he was here, but he would not lie down and die. In his previous life, he’d been ordinary, but he had learned resourcefulness and patience. Live and adapt. Adapt to live.

  His stomach knotted. He had breakfast waiting in the hall, and undoubtedly curious eyes waiting as well. He wanted to make a good impression, to at least appear confident. He pulled on a simple tunic and trousers from a chest at the foot of the bed. The clothes felt foreign against his skin. There were boots in the corner, made of stiff leather, and he slipped into them. They fit well enough. The baron’s body and his were now one and the same.

  As he reached for the door, a sudden wave of dizziness struck him. He swayed and caught himself on the bedpost, breathing heavily. The memories of this place were still settling. He saw flashes again: the black forest to the north, full of twisted trees that could not be cleared without risking plague and ruin. Rumors of savage tribes roaming freely beyond those woods. Hostile eyes lurking just out of sight.

  He clenched his jaw. One step at a time. Waves of memory would come and go, bringing dreadful tales of this land. He would meet them all head-on, as best he could.

  The floorboards creaked under his boots as he approached the door. He paused before leaving, glancing again at the portrait on the wall. The grim-faced noble stared at him silently. Was he a previous lord of the Black Water Territory? Or some ancestor who had once held power here? Reyn might never know, but he felt a strange kinship with that painted figure. Both were trapped in this old castle, facing uncertain futures.

  “No,” Reyn murmured to himself, gripping the doorknob. “I’m not going to end up like the rest.”

  And with that resolve, he stepped out to face the cursed land he now called home.