The screech of tires and the shattering of glass were the last things Ethan Caldwell remembered. He had been crossing the street, earbuds blasting his favorite playlist, when the delivery truck barreled through the intersection. There was no time to react—just a blinding flash of pain, then darkness.
He expected oblivion. Maybe a tunnel of light or some cosmic judgment. Instead, there was a jolt, like waking from a dream, and a flood of sensations that weren't his own. His skin burned and itched beneath heavy bandages. His limbs felt weak, as if they belonged to someone else. The air was thick with the scent of incense and sweat, and voices—unfamiliar, speaking in a language he vaguely recognized—murmured around him.
Ethan tried to open his eyes, but they were heavy, crusted shut. Panic surged. Was he in a hospital? No, the voices weren't speaking English. They were… French? No, not quite. Old French, maybe, mixed with something else. He forced his eyes open, wincing at the dim light filtering through a stone window. The room was small, its walls rough-hewn stone, draped with tapestries depicting crosses and lions. A man in a long robe, his face shadowed by a hood, leaned over him, muttering what sounded like a prayer.
"Where… am I?" Ethan croaked, his voice raspy, unfamiliar. The words came out wrong, not in English but in a tongue he shouldn't know. His heart pounded. This wasn't right. He wasn't himself.
The hooded man paused, his eyes widening. "My lord, you speak!" he said in that same strange language, which Ethan somehow understood. "Praise be to God, you are awake."
"Lord?" Ethan's mind reeled. He tried to sit up, but his body protested, every joint aching. His hands—wrapped in linen bandages—trembled as he raised them to his face. Beneath the wrappings, his skin felt rough, scarred, wrong. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in a polished bronze tray nearby. The face staring back wasn't his. It was gaunt, pale, partially covered by a silver mask that hid the left side. The visible eye was blue, not Ethan's brown, and the hair was a thin, pale blond.
"Who am I?" he whispered, dread coiling in his gut.
The hooded man knelt. "You are Baldwin, fourth of your name, King of Jerusalem, defender of the Holy City. God has spared you once more."
Ethan's breath caught. Baldwin IV. The name hit him like a freight train. He'd read about him in a history class— the young king of Jerusalem during the Crusades, struck by leprosy, ruling a kingdom on the brink of war. But this was impossible. He was Ethan, a 23-year-old barista from Chicago, not a medieval king. Had he been reincarnated? Transmigrated? Was this some twisted afterlife?
"What year is it?" he asked, his voice shaking.
The man frowned, as if the question puzzled him. "It is the year of our Lord 1177, my king."
Ethan's mind spun. 1177. Jerusalem. The Crusades. Saladin. He wasn't just in another body—he was in another time. He tried to piece it together. He'd died, that much was clear. But how had he ended up here, in the body of a king? And why Baldwin IV, of all people? The Leper King, whose body was ravaged by disease, whose reign was a constant struggle against both illness and enemies.
He glanced around the room. A few men stood near the door, clad in chainmail and tunics emblazoned with crosses. Knights. Another figure, a woman in a veiled headdress, hovered nearby, holding a bowl of water and a cloth. They all watched him with a mix of awe and concern.
"My lord, you must rest," the hooded man said, likely a physician or priest. "The fever has broken, but your strength is not yet returned."
Ethan—Baldwin, he supposed—nodded weakly, his mind racing. He needed answers, but he couldn't just blurt out that he wasn't the real Baldwin. They'd think he was mad, or worse, possessed. He had to play the part, at least until he understood what was happening.
"Leave me," he said, mimicking the imperious tone he imagined a king might use. "I… need time to think."
The physician hesitated, then bowed. "As you command, sire." He gestured to the others, and they filed out, leaving Ethan alone in the stone chamber.
He lay back, staring at the vaulted ceiling. His body ached, every movement a reminder of the disease that plagued Baldwin. Leprosy. He'd read about it—disfiguring, debilitating, a death sentence in this era. Yet Baldwin had ruled despite it, holding together a fractious kingdom against Saladin's armies. Ethan, though, was no king. He was a nobody, scraped by in a dead-end job, his biggest achievement beating the final boss in Elden Ring. How was he supposed to survive this?
He closed his eyes, trying to recall everything he knew about Baldwin IV. Crowned at 13, dead by 24, a brilliant tactician despite his illness. The Battle of Montgisard was coming up soon, wasn't it? 1177. Baldwin's greatest victory, where he'd crushed Saladin's army against all odds. If Ethan was stuck here, he'd have to face that battle. And Saladin. And the politics of a kingdom where half the nobles were probably scheming against him.
A knock at the door snapped him out of his thoughts. "Enter," he said, hoping he sounded regal.
A man stepped in, tall and broad-shouldered, his face weathered but handsome, with a short beard and a cross pendant around his neck. He wore a surcoat with a red cross— a Templar, Ethan realized, his limited historical knowledge kicking in.
"Sire," the man said, bowing. "I am Raymond of Tripoli, your regent. The court awaits your command. There is news from Ascalon— Saladin's forces are moving."
Ethan's stomach dropped. Raymond of Tripoli. A major player in the Kingdom of Jerusalem, and not always a loyal one, from what he remembered. And Saladin was already on the move? He wasn't ready for this. He wasn't ready for any of this.
"Tell me… everything," he said, forcing his voice to stay steady. "I need to know the state of the kingdom."
Raymond's eyes narrowed slightly, as if sensing something off, but he nodded. "Of course, my king."
As Raymond began to speak, detailing troop numbers, alliances, and the looming threat of Saladin's army, Ethan's mind raced. He was no longer Ethan Caldwell. He was Baldwin IV, King of Jerusalem, and history was waiting for him to act. Whether this was a second chance or a cosmic joke, he had to survive—disease, war, and all.