Arthur gasped, but the air didn’t rush into his lungs—it wheezed in.

  He tried to sit up, but his body refused to obey. His limbs felt heavy, as if filled with lead, and his fingers were numb, tingling with prickly heat.

  Spinal injury? His engineering mind panicked. Did the truck sever my spinal cord?

  He forced his eyes open. The ceiling wasn’t the sterile white tile of a hospital. It was dark, heavy oak, carved with intricate patterns of vines. The smell wasn’t antiseptic. It was sharp medicinal herbs masking stale sweat and… vomit.

  And the taste. His mouth tasted like copper coins mixed with bitter almonds.

  Arsenic? Or a neurotoxin?

  “He moved! Madam, I saw his finger twitch!”

  A shadow fell over him. A woman’s face appeared—pale, drawn, with dark circles under her eyes that spoke of sleepless nights. She was beautiful, but she looked held together by sheer will.

  “Oliver?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

  Arthur tried to speak, but his tongue felt swollen. “W-Water…”

  The woman didn’t wait for a maid. She grabbed the cup on the nightstand and pressed it to his cracked lips herself, letting the water trickle down his throat.

  “Slowly, my love. Slowly,” she murmured. Then she turned to the nearby servant. “Call the Viscount. Tell him our son has woken.”

  Arthur drank, oblivious to the commotion as the fog in his mind slowly cleared. He looked at his hands resting on the velvet quilt. They were small, pale, and trembling. The fingernails had a faint bluish tint—a classic sign of poisoning.

  They no longer resembled his old hands—sturdy, calloused from years of working alongside construction crews. He wasn’t just an engineer; he had thrived in the building zones of his projects. And, being the avid reader he once was, he had consumed enough transmigration fiction to recognize the impossible.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  But accepting reality was something else entirely.

  “This can’t be real… Elena…” Arthur muttered, his face paling further.

  He slumped back into the bed, memories of his parents and his life crashing down. I promised I wouldn’t be late, he thought of Elena, his vision blurring with tears. But it seems I’m going to be very late.

  The Viscountess, mistaking his tears for pain, leaned closer, brushing damp hair from his forehead. “It hurts, doesn’t it? The physician said the aftereffects would be cruel. But you are strong, Oliver. You are an Ashborn.”

  Ashborn.

  The name weighed heavily in his mind, unlocking fragmented memories of the boy. Viscount Ashborn. A house once a Dukedom, feared and respected, now reduced to a mid-tier noble family clinging to past glory.

  Outside the room, the mansion erupted with relief. “Long life to the Ashborn Family!” shouted a guard, and soon the servants joined in the cheer.

  Down the hall, Layla, Oliver’s maid, rushed to the study to deliver the news. The Viscount was in a tense meeting with the Head Military Chief and the Councillor, discussing the latest reports on his son’s poisoning.

  “My Lord, Master Oliver has awakened!” Layla cried, bursting in without knocking.

  Viscount Ashborn shot up, his chair scraping loudly against the floor. “This meeting is postponed,” he commanded, striding toward the door, leaving baffled officials behind.

  Back in the room, Arthur still stared blankly at the ceiling. There was no denying it, the accident… had been real.

  And this body was not his.

  The door burst open, startling Arthur from his daze.

  A tall man appeared. He wore a deep indigo tailcoat with silver embroidery—fine, but fraying at the cuffs, a silent testament to the family’s decline. Deep bags hung under his eyes, proof of countless sleepless nights.

  Cecilia, the Viscountess, rushed to his side and embraced him, sobbing quietly into his chest. The Viscount’s gaze softened as he looked past her, fixing on his son.

  “Oliver…” his voice cracked. “Welcome back, Son. We have all been waiting for you.”

  Arthur knew he had to play the part. He forced a weak, trembling smile. “I’m… glad to be back, Father. Mother.”

  It felt strange to address strangers this way, but the boy’s lingering memories supplied the necessary emotion. The three embraced, displaying the fierce love the Viscount and Viscountess held for their only son.

  It was a beautiful moment. But it would not last. The Ashborn heir’s return would not go unchallenged.

  (To be continued …)