"...Fudge. Don't tell me—"
A dark, wet stain on the floor beneath the bucket.
Beside it was a single, damp mark.
Barefoot.
Facing the water.
His body locked up before he even realized why.
"Yrkkh…"
Pain.
A violent, crushing force clamped down on his chest.
His breath stuttered.
Water.
It seeped into his bones and filled every inch of his body with a numbing cold. In an instant, he was no longer in his room but submerged underwater.
The air was gone.
The walls dissolved.
The warmth in his body drained, swallowed whole by the liquid pressing in from all sides.
A pair of trembling hands clawed at the porcelain edge as if trying to climb out. It was followed by a muffled scream only to be swallowed by the water.
His vision blurred.
His chest burned.
His body sank.
Huff!!
He gasped and staggered back until he hit the wall.
The impact jolted through his skull, but he barely noticed. His fingers curled into his palms with fingers that felt like they were digging his flesh.
His lungs still worked.
His hands were still dry.
He was in his room.
He was not drowning.
And yet, his heart still slammed against his ribs.
For a fraction of a second, when he dared to glance at the bucket again, he saw it.
A face reflected in the still water.
Hollow.
Empty.
Dead.
Seven Hart.
The real one.
He squeezed his eyes shut and forced a breath through his teeth.
"It wasn't me."
But it felt like it was.
Seven Hart had no redeeming qualities.
That much, the novel had made clear.
A useless aristocrat, born with no talent, no strength, no intelligence that mattered. He had no place among his siblings, no future, and no way to escape the fate written for him.
And so, he had chosen to end his story before it could even begin.
A failure.
But that was before.
Before Seojin found himself here.
Before he was thrown into a role he never asked for.
Before this system gave him a chance, however slim, to survive and rewrite the life of someone who had already left this world.
Now, this discarded body had a talent: something called 'unpredictable.'
"How fitting."
Hah…
He exhaled and lifted his back off the wall.
Step.
He walked towards the window.
Outside, the snow drifted in slow spirals, blanketing the courtyard in white. Beyond the frost-covered gates, the world continued as if nothing had changed.
But it had.
"If I want to survive… I need information."
First, his surroundings.
The mansion, the training grounds, the worn practice dummies.
This was the Hart Mansion.
Or more specifically, the used-to-be mansion.
The main household resided elsewhere, and this place was where the disposable children were sent to be exiled.
"Haha…"
He let out a laugh that was meant for no one.
"Exiled disguised as privilege."
That was what the seventh child of the seventh Archduke received.
His eyes swept the area, searching for familiar faces while recalling the memories of the body. But Seven's retainers, if they could even be called that, were few.
One servant, the one who walked in earlier.
Two knights, the ones guarding the front gate, ignoring the falling snowflakes above their head.
But then again, if transmigrators in some novels had systems that provided them with skills, stats, and overpowered abilities, he had… uhh… maybe one.
'System.'
|| Talent: Highly Unpredictable ||
|| Trait: Imperial Bower ||
"..."
Sigh.
He realized there was no point in thinking too much about it. Even if he did, he would only go in circles.
He shook his head and pushed the thought aside.
If his talent was actually useful, then he would figure it out when the time came.
Another system interface appeared.
|| Total Narrative Points: 7777 NP ||
"...Ah, right. Where can I even use this?"
His gaze swept across the rest of the interface, looking for any clue, but there was nothing else out of the ordinary. Just the same unreadable, empty system that refused to explain itself.
He tried to touch it but his fingers passed straight through.
"This piece of—"
***
In the Training Ground
A woman with platinum hair stood straight. Her face was a masterpiece of cold refinement with high cheekbones, a straight, well-defined nose, and full lips that rarely curved into anything but an unreadable line.
Her ocean-colored eyes were framed by long, pale lashes.
Eden Hart.
It had been over two hours since she last checked on her younger brother, who had remained unconscious for three days. If he did not wake before the day's end, it would mark the fourth.
Eden frowned.
She was set to depart tomorrow morning, thus she was hoping— no, expecting— for Seven to wake up before then.
Hah…
Eden exhaled slowly, shutting her eyes as she gathered the flow of Zaen in her heart and guided it through her veins and into the blade in her grasp.
Her feet were firmly planted with her back straight and relaxed shoulders. Every inch of her posture exuded a controlled elegance.
In her wrist were four black tattooed bracelets, a symbol of her achieving the pinnacle of the Fourth Zaen Gate despite her age.
A genius among geniuses.
Given that, normally, one could only unlock the fourth gate in their thirties— forties onwards if they lacked talent.
Cra Crackle!
The moment her eyes snapped open, a brilliant cyan energy erupted across the blade's surface like a storm.
A manifestation of Zaen.
The mark of a Zaen Enhancer, a classification of those who wielded this power to strengthen their very essence.
The energy radiating from the blade was deadly and so potent that even without striking, the air around it seemed to hum with restrained destruction.
If she chose to swing it, the ground within her range might very well split in half.
Hff…
With a deep breath, she steadied her grip.
But before she could, light footsteps coming from a distance interrupted her.
Even without looking back, she knew who it was.
With a single breath, the crackling energy that once coated her sword dissipated, retreating back into her core as if it had never existed.
Step.
"Sister…?"
The figure who just arrived behind her said.
"I heard you wanted to see me."