Not a sharp, clean pain — but the dull, suffocating ache of a body long abandoned.

Roman's breath hitched. The air he pulled in was stale. Dry. Dusty, like it hadn't seen wind in years. His chest rose slowly, ribs creaking as if they hadn't moved in days.

His heart beat once.

Then again.

Slow. Reluctant.

What the hell…?

He tried to move, but his limbs didn't obey. They felt like wet sand — heavy, shapeless, numb. His eyes fluttered open, and the world greeted him with blurred colors and a distant throb behind his skull.

Stone ceiling. Cracked and stained.

Cobwebs danced in the corners. A beam of light pushed through the broken slats of an old window, barely reaching the foot of the bed he lay in.

Bed? No. That was generous. It was more like a cot, thin and splintered, with a straw mattress that smelled like mildew and rats.

The room was cold.

A sharp wind slipped through the gaps in the walls, brushing against his bare skin. He shivered. His breath fogged in the air.

Where…?

He turned his head — just barely. It felt like pushing boulders. There was a warped mirror on the opposite wall. Cracked down the center, like the face of a shattered god.

And in it, he saw a stranger.

A boy, no older than sixteen. Pale, thin to the point of sickly. Hollow cheeks. Black hair matted against his forehead. Bruised shadows under his dull gray eyes. There was a faint, jagged scar above his right eyebrow — old and healed wrong.

That face… it wasn't his.

It took a full minute for the memories to come.

Not of this place.

Of another.

A battlefield bathed in flame. Shouts and steel. The sting of betrayal. The weight of a crown.

Then—Allen. A sword. Cold steel through his ribs.

Then…

The voice.

"You are not done yet, warborn king. Another world needs you…"

Roman's stomach clenched.

"…Ronald," he whispered aloud, voice rasping like sandpaper.

The name echoed around the empty room like a curse. But it wasn't his name now.

He stared into the mirror again.

Roman Crowell.

A name that surfaced not from memory, but from instinct. From whatever scrap of this boy's soul was still buried beneath his own. He didn't know how he knew it — only that he did.

This body… this life… it wasn't his.

But it was all he had now.

Footsteps outside.

Roman snapped his head toward the door — too fast. Dizziness slammed into him. The room spun. His hands gripped the edge of the bed as the rotten wood groaned beneath him.

The latch clicked.

He forced himself upright, spine screaming with the effort. A chill raced down his back.

The door creaked open.

A girl stepped in. No older than ten, with a frayed shawl wrapped around thin shoulders. Her eyes widened when she saw him upright.

"You're awake?" she asked, voice small.

He blinked. Swallowed the acid on his tongue. Nodded.

"Good," she said, avoiding his gaze. "I'll tell the kitchen. Maybe they'll send you broth."

She turned to leave.

"Wait," Roman said. His voice was a little stronger now.

She paused.

"What's your name?" he asked.

She glanced back. "Lyra."

"Lyra," he repeated. "What… where am I?"

She tilted her head, frowning. "You hit your head too hard?"

He stayed silent.

Lyra hesitated. "…You're in Presia. South wing of the duke's hold. Same place you've always been."

"Presia…" he echoed. The word tasted familiar and foreign at once.

"Your father said not to bother you. But—" She shrugged. "He says that a lot."

Then she left.

Presia.

He rolled the name on his tongue again. His thoughts were beginning to clear — slowly, like smoke lifting after a fire.

Ronald was dead. Stabbed in the heart by the only person he'd ever truly trusted. His empire… gone. Burned by rebellion. A dream reduced to ash.

And yet here he was. In a body too small. Too weak.

A child no one cared for.

The irony wasn't lost on him.

Once, he'd commanded armies. Wielded divine relics. Broken kings. Shaped history with blood and fire. Now, he couldn't even stand without the room spinning.

He had been given a second chance.

But not as a hero. Not even as a soldier.

As a failure.

And that made him smile. Just barely.

Because if there was one thing Ronald Reagan knew how to do — it was start from nothing.

The days that followed passed in silence.

No one came to see him. No doctor. No tutor. Not even the so-called Duke.

Only Lyra, once a day, with a chipped bowl of watery stew. She never stayed long. Just set the bowl down, muttered something, and left. She never met his eyes.

Roman didn't ask why.

He knew the look in her face. He'd seen it before — in slaves, orphans, conquered children. It was fear disguised as apathy. Survival disguised as silence.

Whatever this boy — the old Roman — had been, it wasn't loved.

It was tolerated. Barely.

But each day, strength returned to his limbs. He started moving. Stretching. Training — when no one was watching. Slow, clumsy routines. Push-ups on cracked floorboards. Breathing exercises he'd once taught elite assassins.

His muscles screamed. His lungs burned.

But he smiled through it all.

Progress was progress.

Even if the mirror still showed a broken boy.

On the seventh day, the door opened without a knock.

It wasn't Lyra.

A man walked in, wrapped in fur-lined robes and the scent of smoke. Beard trimmed, hair tied back. Broad-shouldered. Cold eyes.

Roman knew the type.

Soldier once. Now a noble. The kind who thought blood and gold bought loyalty.

The man stared at him for a long moment.

"So you finally decided to live," he said.

Roman said nothing.

The man stepped forward. "You've wasted every coin I spent keeping you alive. Weak since birth. Worthless in court. A stain on the family."

Roman's fingers curled under the sheet.

"But if the gods have cursed me with you," the man continued, "then at least you'll learn to keep your head down."

Roman met his eyes.

Unflinching. Silent.

"Do you even remember your name, boy?"

A pause. Then—

"Roman Crowell," he said flatly.

The man grunted. "Try not to ruin it further."

He turned and left.

No goodbyes. No warmth.

Roman sat in silence, watching the door swing closed.

So that was the father.

He stood for the first time the next day.

His legs shook. His spine ached. But he stood.

He explored the room. Found a broken chair, a dull knife under a loose floorboard, and a faded book of Presian history with half the pages missing. He read every page he could.

This wasn't just survival. This was reconnaissance.

Every detail mattered.

Names. Dates. Geography. Politics. Military ranks. Who ruled. Who rebelled. Who vanished.

Presia was just one dukedom in a fractured kingdom — Clover. Ruled by a royal family clinging to power, while nobles clawed at each other for scraps. Corruption festered like rot. Civil war whispered at the edges.

And beyond the kingdom's borders… darkness. Wraiths. Fallen cults. Angelic remnants.

Roman closed the book with shaking hands.

He had work to do.

That night, as the moon cast pale light through the slats, Roman sat cross-legged on the floor.

Breathing slow. Eyes closed.

He reached inward — not for magic. Not for strength.

For memory.

Who he had been. What he had lost. Why he was here.

But all he saw… was fire.

Fire. And the cold steel of Allen's sword.

The betrayal still burned in his chest like an ember refusing to die.

He clenched his fists.

He didn't know what the goddess wanted. Or why this world needed him. Or how deep the corruption ran.

But he knew one thing.

He would never be weak again.