Before me, what should have been my reflection— instead showed a beautiful young man, about 18 or 19 years old, with bright blonde hair that fell just above the shoulders and striking hazel eyes.
He stood around 179 cm tall and possessed a handsome yet delicate appearance. Despite his pale complexion, his refined features gave him a soft, almost ethereal charm.
He wore a loose-fitting white linen shirt paired with matching pants— noble nightwear, I assumed. Still, it left a sour taste in my mouth. Why did it look better than anything I owned, even on my best day?
I raised my hands- touching my face, testing if the reflection was really mine— or if someone was somehow standing behind the mirror. I've seen way too many prank videos to accept that my face had just... changed.
And my height? I used to be a bit taller!
Then I froze, staring at the unfamiliar face as if willing it to shift back— anything to make this make sense.
And then, suddenly, it clicked.
A new place. Anew identity. A new face.
And most importantly– I had died.
Isn't this what they call— Transmigration?
I can't believe it. Not that I'd transmigrated, but rather the fact that it took me so long to realize it. Especially when I've read so many novels about it as a teenager. I just know my past self would be deeply disappointed in me.
But seriously… this transmigration thing is real?
I think I owe an apology to all my friends whom I made fun of for believing in this 'unscientific nonsense'.
Alright, so connecting all the dots I can deduce that I somehow got transmigrated into the body of the Baron's third son.
And what now?
Anyway, I can't afford to dwell on this now. I can process this existential crisis later. Right now, I need to get dressed and show up for breakfast.
---
Opening the closet, I saw an outfit hanging neatly inside. If what I was wearing now was considered refined nightwear, then the clothes before me screamed luxury and fashion— I guess at least by this world's standards.
The shirt was a bright shade of lime green, with elaborate patterns stitched into the cuffs and a cascade of frills running dramatically down the sleeves. It was paired with a marroon vest with brown stiches.bWas this supposed to be some kind of parrotcostume?
Thankfully, the pants were more restrained— a plain pair of olive-colored trousers that balanced things out… slightly.
After quickly assessing my attire, I took a quick bath and changed into the outfit. Admittedly, they weren't to my taste, but I consider myself adaptable. I mean, I once had to dress as a mascot for an amusement park—this was almost dignified by comparison.
Using a comb I found on the vanity, I brushed my hair back into what I hoped passed as a sophisticated hairstyle. The mirror confirmed what I already suspected— even in this ridiculous outfit, I looked flawless.
Honestly, a pretty face really is a cheat code. Put a burlap sack on someone like this and people would call it a fashion statement.
---
It had been about an hour since the maid left, so I figured it was time to move. I stepped out into a corridor that exuded quiet grandeur and the kind of understated wealth that doesn't need to flaunt itself. The walls were paneled in polished oak— or maybe mahogany—with gold filigree tracing crests and symbols I didn't recognize. Between them hung oil paintings in ornate frames: ancestors with solemn eyes, battlefield scenes frozen in motion, and cryptic emblems that probably had depper meaning.
The floor beneath me alternated between polished stone and dark hardwood, softened by richly embroidered rugs bearing a sigil— the barony's I presume. Tall windows let in filtered morning light through heavy velvet drapes alternates with plain light curtains.
Here and there, pedestals displayed treasures— suits of armor, porcelain vases, ancient relics made of precious metal— all arranged as if the house itself was part museum, part throne.
It was quiet. The kind of silence that didn't feel empty, but deliberate. Only the soft footsteps of servants and the faint ticking of a distant clock broke the stillness.
I walked forward, guided solely by instinct. I had no idea where the dining hall was, but if I bumped into a servant, I could always ask. After all, they believed I was still recovering— mild disorientation wouldn't raise much suspicion.
---
As I descended the grand staircase, a servant waiting at the bottom looked up, he too was dressed in a formal servant's attire. Though he seemed to be as old as this body, he possessed an air of cold formality. He bowed deeply and asked:
"How may I assist you, Third Young Master?"
"Please escort me to the dining hall," Ireplied trying to act as if it was the most natural command.
He gave me a brief, curious glance—but nodded.
We walked in silence, passing more corridors filled with restrained opulence. Finally, we stopped in front of a pair of towering doors—ornate, imposing, and gilded with gold.
They opened slowly.
Beyond them, seated at a long table set for breakfast, was a family.
My family?