Maxim Igorevich didn't even have time to understand what had just occurred. A mere fraction of a second prior, his boot had caught on a jagged stone protruding from the dirt path. He had been walking from the train station toward his summer dacha settlement, his arms frantically windmilling in a desperate bid to maintain his balance—and then, the world suddenly turned inside out. Instead of the familiar, sun-dappled trail worn through the birch grove, a heavy velvet curtain hung before his eyes. Instead of the sharp fragrance of wild summer herbs, the air was saturated with the soft, bittersweet scent of apples and crushed wormwood. To make matters worse, a sharp wave of vertigo hit his brain, leaving his legs unstable and weak. He was forced to reach out, his fingers desperately clamping onto a swath of vibrant, heavy fabric to keep from collapsing. His mind completely failed to comprehend the moment: was his own balance faltering this severely, or was the land undergoing a literal earthquake? “What’s happening?” The words tore from his lips, but he managed to bite his tongue just in time to abort a roaring, seven-story Russian curse. Instead of his habitual, gravelly voice, a low, rich baritone erupted from his chest. The phrase resonated through the room in a completely unfamiliar language—fluid, polished, and beautifully melodic. Maxim Igorevich froze in place, a cold dread rippling across his skin. Something was profoundly wrong. Not just with the environment, but with his body. He forced his gaze downward and nearly let out a frantic shriek. The anomaly didn't stop at his clothing—though instead of his comfortable knit jumper and denim jeans, his torso was wrapped in a fine silk shirt adorned with a plush jabot, sealed beneath a heavy, structured doublet covered in intricate, woven embroidery. That wasn't the terrifying part. The absolute horror was that the physical vessel did not belong to him. The height, the massive span of the shoulders, the thin frame... By the time he reached sixty, Maxim had accumulated a solid layer of extra kilograms; he had long been used to seeing his own stomach whenever he looked down at his boots. But here... his line of sight mapped a pair of sleek black trousers tucked cleanly into immaculate, high-polished leather boots. It was impossible. And there was more. The hand currently gripping the heavy curtain was completely alien. Because it was young. Take it from someone who has lived a long life: the skin of the hands always broadcasts the true age of a person. Especially in men. He brought his free palm up to his face, straining to force his swimming vision to focus. He saw long, elegant fingers, smooth skin, strange weapon calluses, and meticulously manicured fingernails. It was the neatness of those nails that completely shattered his remaining composure. This is a dream, Maxim thought frantically, his fingers pinching the flesh of his arm. Damn it. It hurts. Too painful to be a dream. The environment before his eyes finally stabilized, the spinning kaleidoscope of glowing, prismatic streaks slowing down until the throbbing ache in his temples began to recede. He pivoted on his heel with calculated slowness. Behind him was a sweeping, semi-circular balcony supported by grand marble columns tightly entwined with wild ivy. In the far distance, the sharp silhouettes of slender cypresses loomed dark against the horizon, beneath a sky heavy with a dense, bruised purple twilight. The entire landscape appeared layered in delicate watercolors, the shadows falling across the stone with the soft, romantic texture of an ancient painting. He gave his head a powerful shake, his brow furrowing as his eyes scanned the sky. This world held no connection to Earth. Earth possessed a solitary moon. Here, three lunar spheres hung suspended in the night sky. “Have you taken it all in? Have you realized what has occurred?” a calm, measured voice asked from the darkness behind him. Maxim Igorevich whirled around. Floating toward him across the stone, moving as smoothly as if suspended on a cushion of air, was a gray-haired man draped in a long robe. He held a heavy staff topped with a crystalline shard that emitted a dim, rhythmic pulse of light. Inside the old man's weary, deep-set eyes, Maxim could read a profound sense of anticipation. “Who the hell are you? Where am I?” Maxim blurted out, his voice tight. “Welcome to Eridon,” the elder replied, his features softening. “You are currently within the ancestral manor of the House of Valtar. I am Elias, a mage of the First Circle. I served as the primary mentor to your father—or rather, the father of the body in which your consciousness has just awakened. Judging by the way you are scanning your surroundings, as if seeing this universe for the first time, the ritual of awakening only succeeded by half.” “A ritual?” Maxim Igorevich clenched his fists, a wave of hot, pragmatic anger overriding his panic. “What kind of ritual? How did I get dragged into this place? What am I... an isekai traveler? A transmigrator?” Elias let out a slow sigh, his head tilting slightly as he analyzed the youth's erratic movements. “I beg of you, calm down! Your current panic is useless. I shall explain everything to you, for you are far from the first to materialize under these specific conditions. The Ritual of Awakening the Memory of Past Lives is, admittedly, a non-standard way to quickly teach young heirs ancestral wisdom. But it is not a rare spell, either. Every candidate approaches the altar consciously, preparing their mind to pass through all the lives previously lived by their soul.” “Are you trying to tell me that I—after living an entire lifetime on Earth—was simply reborn inside this boy?” the transmigrator demanded, his fingers tapping hard against the silk doublet covering his chest. “Meaning my consciousness didn't displace him or erase who he was?” “It is wonderful that you already understand that life is cyclical!” the mage noted, a flicker of genuine relief crossing his weathered face. “You are no hostile parasite inside this vessel, young man. You are the rightful heir to an ancient bloodline, a noble whose veins conduct raw blood magic. But your primary consciousness right now remains entirely foreign, because you have forgotten that you are a child of this universe, remembering only an alternate world. We hoped that the soul, upon recalling its complete experience, would gift that wisdom to the young heir. But... the soul decided that his previous self was unworthy to continue its existence.” Maxim Igorevich opened his mouth to object, to roar that this entire mystical monologue was absolute nonsense, but the words locked inside his throat. A memory flashed from his mind: a mere ten minutes ago, he had been walking past the quiet birch trees on Earth, deeply buried in a mundane calculation about how he could feed a local stray dog for the summer, strictly to keep from spending his lonely evenings in total isolation. And now, a literal mage stood before him—looking as if he had stepped straight off the pages of a fantasy novel—stubbornly proving that he had been reborn. “And what now?” Maxim let out a low, cynical chuckle. “Am I supposed to become an overpowered overlord and the next Dark Lord?” Elias mirrored his smirk, a glint of dry humor dancing in his old eyes. “I do not know why you would prioritize such chaotic objectives. But wouldn't it be far better to simply learn to be who you have already become? You chose to undergo the awakening ritual because you lost your father. Tomorrow morning, at the first light of the moons, you are required to take his place and stand at the helm of the House of Valtar.” “Listen to me, mage,” Maxim whispered, dropping his head into his palms as his Earth-born pragmatism buckled under the weight of the scenario. “This is impossible. I cannot understand the subtle nuances of an alien civilization or memorize the laws of your kingdom in a single night.” “And you do not need to,” the old man waved it off dismissively, turning toward the interior corridors. “We have a proverb here: sleep on it, things always look better in the morning. You will go to sleep now, and upon waking, your mind will have fully awakened with the full memory of this body. Come. I shall escort you to your chambers. Tomorrow, when the moons set, you will wake up a completely altered man.” Maxim Igorevich swallowed hard, casting a final glance toward the deepening purple twilight. Out between the dark cypresses, strange, mysterious lights—neither stars nor fireflies, but something far more cryptic—were already beginning to flicker through the mist. He didn't know, and couldn't remember, exactly how his earthly life had ended. But one thing was crystal clear: back to his familiar world, there was no longer a path. Which meant, he would simply have to conquer this one.