The room's door burst open just as he fell asleep.
His father's silhouette loomed in the frame—Arthas, eyes bloodshot, face twisted with something between fury and heartbreak, his greatsword already drawn and pointed at Aldrich's throat.
"I would stay still if I were you," Arthas said, his voice hoarse, trembling under the weight of grief and conviction.
Aldrich froze, his breath caught in his chest, heart pounding as his eyes darted to the blade and then to the man behind it. A silent nod was all he could manage.
Behind Arthas, the sounds of sobbing grew louder. Aldrich shifted his gaze and saw his mother clutching his sister, both of them tear-streaked and broken. The sound pierced deeper than any blade ever could.
'No… why are they here? Why are they crying?' His hand trembled, groping the mattress for anything—an anchor, a weapon, a way out. His mind raced, desperate.
'How did they get here so fast?'
Reaching toward them, his voice cracked as he whispered, "Sorry I have to leave you so soon… it was for the best."
His mother slapped his hand away, her eyes burning with betrayal and rage. "You are not my son," she spat, the words hitting like stone. "You're a monster! An abomination wearing his skin!"
"No…" His voice trembled. "Mom… please, it's me…"
"You killed my little brother!" his sister screamed, her sobs shaking her whole body. "I wish you were never born!"
Her words were a dagger through the heart.
"No! It's not like that! Please! Just listen to me!" Aldrich cried out, eyes wide with panic and despair. But the cold steel cuffs snapped onto his wrists, then ankles, stealing his freedom like the words had already stolen his soul.
"I told you," came the mocking voice of William. "You're an evil spirit, 'little brother.' Been saying it since the beginning." His grin was cruel, triumphant.
Magnus's expression was harder to read—stern, but not without pain. "It's done. He's secure. He won't escape this time," he said, then glanced at their father, seeking approval.
Arthas looked down at Aldrich with a face carved in sorrow. "I'm sorry… Aldrich. I really am. But this… this is the only way."
"No! Please, Father! You have to believe me!" Aldrich screamed, tears blinding him as the priest stepped forward—the same priest who'd appraised him a year ago.
"By the All-Mother!" the priest bellowed. "I cleanse this vessel! Purge the evil spirit that taints it!"
His hands glowed with radiant light, but to Aldrich, it felt like judgment made flesh. The light slammed into him like a wave of fire.
He screamed. Chains rattled as he thrashed, writhing in pain not from the light—but from their eyes, their accusations, their hatred.
"PLEASE! STOP!! I'M STILL ME!!" he wailed, as the world blurred and burned.
'How could they… my family… how could they do this to me?'
Then came the crash.
A jolt.
"Wake up!"
"Wake up, Raymond!"
"WAKE UP!!"
His eyes snapped open. Gasping for air, Aldrich sat bolt upright, covered in sweat. Ivan was beside him, gripping his shoulders.
"Bad dream, huh?" Ivan muttered, then added dryly, "You scared the shit out of everyone. Nearly broke the damn door."
Aldrich clutched his chest, trying to steady his ragged breathing. 'Just a nightmare… just a dream…' he repeated to himself.
But the tears on his cheeks told him it was more than that.
He rose and wiped his face with a cloth from a sack of clothes, hands still trembling.
Ivan sighed. "You need to keep it down, Raymond. There's others renting rooms here. Last thing I need is people checking out because of your screaming." He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "There's food downstairs. Soup and bread—meat too, if you can afford it."
Then he turned, muttering as he eyed the splintered doorframe. "And you're paying for that, by the way. Tsk."
Aldrich just whispered, "Okay… thanks," and sat back down, still dazed.
His thoughts spiraled.
'Evil spirit… why would they think I'm one?'
'I transmigrated, sure, but I didn't steal a soul… I didn't do anything wrong…'
He shut his eyes. He could still hear their voices.
'I know Mom and Sis wouldn't say that… not really… right? But William… Magnus… they always suspected…'
Shaking it off, he checked his system clock. 6 p.m.
He stood, sighing as he looked at the broken door. Easy enough fix. He was a blacksmith. Fixing doors was a lot easier than fixing his heart.
But for now—food. And answers.
He took stock of his situation. He looked different now—his body unrecognizable. Good. He could move without drawing suspicion.
But the blanket and wooden greatsword… those had to be hidden. If anyone linked them back to the commotion in his hometown, he was done for.
No mirror in the room. He'd need one—and tools. Add it to the list.
He stepped out and descended the stairs. The scent of roasted meat and baked bread hit him like a spell. His stomach growled loudly. His throat ached.
Several patrons looked up at the creaking of the stairs and scowled at him. He gave a sheepish smile. "Heh… sorry about earlier."
Spotting Ivan at the counter, Aldrich walked over. "Hey. Uh… sorry again. I was dealing with some… personal stuff."
Ivan shrugged. "Meh. Happens. What'll it be?"
"Any food left? How much?"
"Ten copper for soup and bread. Another ten if you want meat."
"Can I pay in advance?" Aldrich asked, producing silver coins. "A year's worth. Breakfast and dinner only."
Ivan raised an eyebrow, but took the money without a word. "Find a seat. I'll bring it over."
Aldrich nodded and scanned the tables. Two men sat quietly—one scarred and muscular, the other stout and worn from labor.
"Mind if I sit here?"
The burly one gave him a brief look, then moved aside in silence.
"Thanks," Aldrich said, sitting. The men returned to their conversation, but one question pierced through:
"Are you sure the army in the South is losing?" the stout one asked, anxious. "The Almiran elite are down there… what happened?"
The scarred man didn't answer.
"Hey, Brynn! I asked you something!"
The room quieted as Brynn stood, scanning the space.
"The orcs are led by a Tier 5 Mystic Warrior. Grommash. He's a monster. Slaughtered Tier 3s by the dozen, even wounded Tier 4s. Our Tier 5 retreated. Now it's just Tier 2s and 3s holding the line. We're outnumbered. It's only a matter of time."
He turned to leave.
"Coward!" a drunken voice yelled—then a bottle flew.
Brynn caught it midair, barely looking. His glare silenced the room. He walked out.
Then—BOOM. The ground shook. A crater formed where he'd jumped away.
The stout man—Greg—shook his head. "You don't provoke a Tier 3 like that…"
The drunk collapsed to his knees.
Ivan leaned out, whistled, and turned back. "That's on your tab. Flatten it before sunrise, or I'm telling Father."
The drunk paled further.
Aldrich sat frozen, struck by the power… and the talk of war.
It reminded him of his father. His family.
He turned to Greg. "Sir, who was that?"
"Huh? Oh, Brynn. Ex-military. Led troops down South. Name's Greg, by the way. You?"
"Ald—Raymond," Aldrich said quickly. "He's strong, huh? I wish I could… fly like that."
Greg laughed. "Fly? He jumped! HAHA!"
Aldrich blinked. That was a jump?
Greg grinned. "If that's what a Tier 3 can do, imagine a Tier 5."
Ivan arrived with food. "Here you go, Raymond. Bread, soup, meat. Warm water too."
"Thanks," Aldrich muttered, eyes locked on the plate. He ate like a man starved—because he was. Starved for food, comfort, and maybe even hope.
Afterwards, Greg leaned in. "Kid, how old are you?"
"Nineteen," Aldrich replied, wiping his mouth.
"Then listen up. Next year, conscription starts. Even for kids like you. Train. Survive. Got it?"
He stood, bumping into a chair on his way out, ruining his exit.
Aldrich smiled faintly. But the smile faded as war loomed in his thoughts.
He whispered, "I might be seeing Father sooner than I want…"
Aldrich sat still on the edge of the straw bed, the candlelight flickering softly against the rough walls. His eyes were half-lidded, heavy with exhaustion but too alive with thoughts to close.
He let out a long, drawn-out sigh, pinching the bridge of his nose as memories clawed at the back of his mind. "Okay, Aldrich… one step at a time," he whispered to himself, his voice hoarse, barely audible. "You can do this."
With effort, he pushed himself up and headed downstairs.
"Ivan!" he called out with a faint, hopeful energy. "Hey, Van! Quick question—do you know where the local blacksmith is? And where can I buy some mirrors?"
Ivan didn't look up immediately, his jaw twitching slightly at the nickname. "Van," he muttered under his breath, clearly irritated. "The hell kinda name is that…"
He finally glanced sideways at Aldrich, the annoyance clear on his face but contained beneath the weary professionalism of a tired innkeeper. "Look, tomorrow morning, just follow the black smoke. That'll lead you straight to the blacksmith—can't miss it. As for mirrors, marketplace has 'em. Pretty much anywhere in that area. Now, if that's all—please, try not to bother me again."
With a dismissive wave, he turned away, muttering something about 'weird kids' under his breath.
Aldrich offered a dry smile, more out of politeness than appreciation. "Thanks, Van."
He made his way back upstairs, ignoring Ivan's quiet grumble behind him.
Once back in the quiet of his room, Aldrich sat cross-legged on the straw bed and pulled up his status panel. The glow illuminated his face, casting shadows under his tired eyes.
So much to do tomorrow… So many questions. So little time.
He let the panel fade, then laid back and stared at the wooden ceiling above.
Trying to rest, he began counting sheep in his head. One… two… three…
But then—
Crack.
The silence in his mind split open like a rotten seam.
"You're not my son."
"Why did you come back just to ruin everything?"
"He's dangerous. We should hand him over—"
Aldrich gasped, bolting upright as a cold sweat broke over his skin. His chest heaved as he clutched the blankets close, trying to force air into his lungs.
"F-Fuck… not again…" he choked out.
His fingers clawed through his hair as he curled inward, trembling. The nightmare hadn't physically hurt, but emotionally—it felt like his insides had been shattered and rearranged.
Why do they hurt so much? Why do they feel so real?
He buried his face into the crook of his arm, whispering through clenched teeth. "What if… what if that's what they'll actually do if they find me? What if they see me as a freak—sell me off to some mage or witch to be dissected like a monster?"
His heart pounded in his ears.
System! he screamed internally, the plea echoing in his own mind. You're supposed to help me—do you have anything to stop this?!
…Silence.
He waited.
Tried again.
Still silence.
"Great," he muttered bitterly, forcing himself up. "The one time I need you… and you're just as helpful as a rock."
He paced for a few seconds, then took a deep breath and slapped his cheeks gently. "Okay. Breathe. If the system's gonna play mute, I'll just try something else…"
He sat down again, this time folding into a makeshift lotus position. "Alright. Let's see if those yoga YouTube gurus from Earth actually knew their stuff."
Inhale.
Visualize the air flowing from your nose to your chest… down your arms… into your fingertips.
Exhale.
Again… this time to your waist… legs… all the way to your toes.
He repeated the rhythm over and over, letting the cadence take over his thoughts. Slowly, the anxiety peeled away, like layers of dust brushed from a mirror.
His breathing steadied.
His body loosened.
Sleep finally took him—not harshly this time, but softly, like a friend.
Kane's Manor – Arthas' Study, Midnight
The study was quiet save for the soft crackle of the fireplace. Arthas stood unmoving, his hand resting lightly on the letter left behind by Aldrich.
He had read it dozens of times by now.
But still, the words carved into his chest like a blade.
The corners of his mouth turned upward, but the smile was broken—fragile. His eyes shimmered with unshed tears, and his throat tightened as he whispered:
"…Another soul from another world."
He gently ran his thumb across the parchment. "Even if that's true… Even if your soul isn't from here… you're still my son, Aldrich. And I'll never treat you as anything else."
The orange glow of patrol torches flickered through the study's windows. His soldiers scoured the grounds for any trace of his youngest child.
And yet you're still gone.
A knock disrupted the silence.
Arthas quickly wiped his face, steeling himself. "Ahem. Come in."
Magnus entered first, followed closely by William. Both paused upon seeing the faint red in their father's eyes—but neither said a word.
"We bring news, Father," Magnus began.
Arthas gave a small nod. "Go on."
William stepped forward, eyes serious. "We found blood, and a strange tar-like residue in Aldrich's room."
Arthas narrowed his gaze. "Tar?"
William didn't flinch. "Yes, sir. The kind that appears when a person breaks through to Tier 1. I believe… Aldrich achieved a breakthrough. There was no sign of forced entry. It had to be him."
Arthas stared at his son in stunned silence, then let out a short, disbelieving laugh. "That's… absurd. Aldrich is a child. Brilliant, yes. Even prodigious—but to reach Tier 1 at his age? That's beyond genius. That's impossible."
Magnus stepped in, his tone unwavering. "We found signs of someone hastily scrubbing the floor. The blood wasn't cleaned properly. It wasn't a break-in—it was a breakthrough."
Arthas' breath caught.
The color drained from his face.
He reached out to steady himself on the desk, heart pounding.
"Call for Apprentice Mage Marvin," he said quietly, not looking up. "He's got the skill to investigate traces like this. If we're going to understand what's happening… we'll need his insight."
Magnus and William exchanged a glance, then bowed.
"Yes, Father," they said in unison, before retreating and softly closing the door behind them.
Left alone once more, Arthas sank into his chair.
His fingers trembled slightly as he whispered to himself, the letter still clenched in his fist.
"What happened to you, Aldrich…?"