The dining hall was big enough to host a political coup — and probably had, judging by the number of long-forgotten portraits watching him from the walls like disappointed ancestors.
Servants moved efficiently around the room, like trained ghosts.
One of them pulled out a chair at the head of the long table for him.
Sam took his seat like a man walking into his own execution.
From the haze of stolen memories, he knew this much:
The original Samuel Nightshade had also been an orphan.
Parents gone — both casualties of the Great World War III, five years ago.
A noble house with no head, no guidance, and way too much money.
Samuel had grown up alone in this manor, surrounded by silent halls, servants too scared to speak, and zero adult supervision.
Which, in retrospect, explained a lot about the unhinged personality he inherited.
Sam picked up his fork.
The food was suspiciously fancy — eggs seasoned with herbs he couldn't pronounce, toast crisped with ridiculous precision, and juice that probably came from some overpriced fruit that only grew under moonlight.
He took a bite.
Nyra approached quietly, head bowed, hands clasped in front of her.
"Master," she said softly, "a letter arrived. From House Vessia."
Sam immediately choked on a piece of toast.
He grabbed his drink, downed it in one gulp, and coughed out,
"What's in the letter?"
Nyra didn't flinch. Professional to the bone.
"They wish to discuss your engagement with Miss Lyra Vessia."
Of course they do.
Sam sighed, leaned back in the chair, and stared at the chandelier like it owed him money.
The memories from novel hit him.
Lyra Vessia.
A childhood acquaintance — though calling it a "childhood friendship" was generous.
Their fathers had been war buddies and sealed the engagement as part of some old alliance agreement.
Then Samuel's father died.
And later Lyra awakened an Epic-tier element — something absurd and flashy that made the heavens weep and the church choir faint.
Meanwhile, original Sam awakened… fire.
Common tier.
The kind of element you'd expect a village goat to awaken.
Lyra, naturally, was not impressed.
Sam remembered that line from the novel — burned into his brain like a bad tattoo:
"I would rather die than marry that loser."
Classy.
Sam dragged a hand down his face and sighed.
"Classic."
Nyra, ever the diligent maid, stepped forward.
"They request your presence for a discussion, Master."
Sam nodded slowly. "Fine. I'll meet them."
Internally?
Yeah. I'll meet them — and break it off before she does.
Better to cut off a rotten branch yourself than wait for the whole tree to collapse.
Nyra glanced at the antique clock on the wall.
"Master, we're running late."
Sam looked at her flatly. "You know you're starting to nag me, right?"
She blinked, then tilted her head. "I've been restraining myself."
"Charming," he muttered, pushing back his chair.
He stood, straightened his coat, and followed her toward the door.
"Alright, Let's go."
As Sam stepped outside, he was greeted by the sight of a sprawling garden — one of those absurdly well-maintained noble estates where even the flowers probably had trust funds.
At the edge of the gravel path waited a sleek black carriage, polished to a shine, horses snorting like they had opinions about aristocracy.
Sam turned back for a moment, eyes scanning the massive manor behind him.
A towering thing of stone, shadow, and inherited trauma.
It loomed like a reminder:
This was all yours now.
The legacy of the Nightshade family.
Built by blood.
Now owned by a guy who nearly died choking on toast ten minutes ago.
He exhaled through his nose.
"Well," he muttered, "at least I'm not poor. That's got to count for something."
He climbed into the carriage with all the enthusiasm of a man headed for a dental appointment with fate.
Just as Nyra shut the door behind him, Sam raised an eyebrow.
"You're not coming?"
She froze mid-motion like a squirrel caught stealing bread.
"M-Master, how can I possibly sit with my lord in the same carriage? I'll sit at the back."" she stammered.
Sam stared at her.
Deadpan. Expressionless.
What kind of dumb medieval logic is this?
His silence dragged just long enough to become socially threatening.
Under his gaze, Nyra coughed nervously and looked like she was reconsidering her entire life.
"Sit. With. Me," he said, each word slow and deliberate.
She flinched. "I-I couldn't possibly—"
"That's an order."
She froze, then reluctantly climbed in and slid into the farthest corner like a terrified cat expecting a trap.
Sam watched her, puzzled.
Why is she so scared?
The carriage rolled forward.
Sam leaned against the window, watching the world blur by as the carriage rattled along the road.
After a while, the landscape shifted.
And then — there it was.
The capital.
A sprawling fantasy fever dream of stone towers, floating islands, and impossible architecture clearly built by people who'd never heard the words "structural integrity."
Above, skyships drifted lazily like arrogant clouds.
Sleek magical artifacts zipped through the air, piloted by nobles showing off.
One particularly smug whale-shaped aircraft floated past, likely used for high-class public transport — or possibly noble children's birthday parties.
Sam raised an eyebrow.
Flying whales.
Of course.
Down on the ground, things were no less magical — or ridiculous.
People were using spells for the most mundane tasks.
A vendor cleaned his stall with a gust of wind magic.
A woman dried her laundry using a miniature sun she conjured above her balcony.
A street magician juggled flaming orbs while a group of children watched with wide eyes and sticky hands.
From what he remembered, this was the heart of the Empire of Elements — the grand, glittering capital.
A place where magic wasn't just common.
It was currency.
Status.
Life itself.