The bell echoed across the quiet schoolyard as students trickled into the gates. Robert stood still, his shoulders squared, lips pressed into a thin line. His uniform, crisp and perfectly ironed, clung stiffly to a body more used to training drills than sitting still.
He was Charles now—at least, that's what this world believed. A normal fifteen-year-old boy in a normal school where magic didn't exist and power was measured in grades and gossip.
"Charles!" a voice called, and Robert turned instinctively. Two boys approached—tall, loud, the kind of kids who mistook arrogance for authority. Friends of Charles, apparently.
"You ditched Math again, huh?" one of them laughed, punching Robert lightly in the shoulder. "Classic Charles."
Robert forced a smirk. He'd studied Charles' memories enough to play the part. "Didn't feel like watching Mr. Downer cry over decimals," he replied coolly.
The boys laughed, satisfied.
As they walked the halls, Robert's eyes caught everything—the broken lockers, the girl faking confidence, the teacher fighting indifference. This world felt... empty. And yet, strangely loud.
By lunch, they found a quiet corner by the staircase. That's when it happened.
A boy, thin, twitchy, barely taller than Robert's shoulder, walked past carrying a tray of food. One of Charles' friends—Reggie, the stocky one—stuck out a foot.
The tray flew. Rice and curry splattered across the floor. Laughter erupted. The boy tumbled, smacking the ground with a dull thud.
"Oops," Reggie said, snorting. "Didn't see you, geek."
The boy scrambled up, face flushed. Robert watched.
Something in the boy's eyes. Fear—no, recognition.
Because Robert had been him. Once. Not in this world, but in one where his father beat power into his bones and failure meant bruises.
"Pick it up," Reggie sneered. "Unless you want more help falling."
The boy's lips quivered. He bent to obey.
"Enough," Robert said, stepping forward.
Reggie blinked. "What?"
"I said enough," Robert repeated. His voice didn't rise, but the authority in it chilled the air.
Reggie chuckled, uneasy. "You're Charles. Since when did you care?"
Robert stepped between him and the boy. "Since I remembered who I really am."
The boy on the ground looked up, confused.
Robert reached out a hand. "Come on."
The boy hesitated, then took it.
Whispers spread through the hall like fire. Charles—the arrogant prince of the school—helping someone?
But Robert didn't care.
For the first time since waking in this world, he felt something unfamiliar.
Right.
Jamlick stared at the outstretched hand like it was poison. His own hands shook—not from fear, but rage.
He slapped it away.
"I don't need your help," he spat, wiping the curry from his cheek. "Not from you."
Robert blinked. For a moment, he forgot whose face he wore.
"You think saving me fixes it?" Jamlick's voice trembled. "Is this a prank ,you trying to humiliate me." He stopped, throat catching, fury breaking into pain.
Around them, students watched in stunned silence. A few exchanged glances—some guilty, others thrilled by the drama. No one stepped in.
"I'm not him," Robert said quietly.
Jamlick laughed bitterly. "You are him. You're Charles freaking Barn. Born cruel. Born golden. You ruined us just by existing."
"I didn't mean—" Robert started, then stopped. What was he supposed to say? That he was a different soul in the same body?
"You don't get to rewrite the past," Jamlick snapped, voice rising. "Not when you burned it."
He turned and walked away, stepping over the spilled food without another glance.
Robert stood frozen. The hallway buzzed back to life, but it sounded distant.
He'd faced beasts that tore flesh from bone. Fought in tournaments where failure meant exile. But here, in a world without Gana or carnation or kings—he had no defense.
Just regret.
And maybe… the start of understanding what Charles had broken.