I woke to the sound of the wind.

  Not the soft whisper of a coastal breeze or the hollow moan of a mountain draft, but something heavier. Thicker. Like the breath of a dying god, rattling across the barren stone of a world that forgot his name.

  Cold seeped into my bones before my mind had even caught up. I shifted under the thin wool blanket, the straw mattress crunching underneath. Something popped in my back, sharp and unpleasant.

  "Gods," I muttered, voice rough with sleep. "Already feels like I've lived three lives and died twice."

  I sat up slowly, my ribs protesting the motion. The fire had long since gone out, leaving only a pile of gray ash and the faint smell of burnt oak. It was still dark outside the shutters. Too early for sane men to be awake. Too late for decent sleep.

  I swung my legs over the side of the bed. The floor was cold, even through the worn soles of my boots. For a moment, I just sat there, elbows on my knees, head bowed, breathing in the silence.

  It had been six months since I'd woken up in this world.

  Six months since I'd blinked open my eyes, expecting to see the off-white ceiling of my studio apartment in Seoul—and instead found stone walls, iron sconces, and the sharp copper stink of blood in the air.

  Han Soo-jin. That was my name, once. Thirty-eight years old. Middle management in a logistics firm. Paid my taxes. Bought convenience store coffee every morning. Spent my nights reading webnovels to forget the long, grinding days.

  And now... Kael Vorran. Minor baron of a crumbling northern fief, retired knight of the Empire, widowed father.

  I still wasn’t sure if it was a blessing or a curse.

  My fingers brushed the scar across my side—three inches of ruined flesh where a bandit’s blade had nearly ended this life before it began. It had healed awkwardly, a constant reminder: you don't get free retries here. No save points. No system windows flashing missions at you. No infinite lives.

  Just blood. Just pain. Just choice.

  And today, I had choices to make.

  I pulled on the heavy leather coat draped over the chair. It smelled faintly of woodsmoke and the oil I used to keep it supple. Practical, durable. Like everything else in this damn place.

  The hall outside my chamber was dim and empty. Only the muted flicker of torches down the long stone corridor offered any light. Cold again. Always cold here, even when the hearths were roaring.

  I made my way down the worn steps to the keep’s small council room. The guards on the doors straightened as I passed, fists thumping over hearts in salute. Poor bastards. Probably colder than I was.

  Inside, a few figures waited around the rough oak table. Maps and ledgers were scattered across it, ink bottles left open and slowly drying.

  At the head of the table stood Merren, my steward. An old campaigner, sharper than most and twice as grim.

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  "You’re early, my lord," he said without looking up, flipping through a battered ledger. "Didn’t expect you ‘til sunrise."

  "Couldn’t sleep," I said, dragging a chair out with a scrape of wood on stone. "Bad dreams."

  He grunted. "Aye. The wind's full of them lately."

  I leaned back, surveying the others. Jonas, the captain of my pitiful little guard, scratched at his beard and nodded. Across from him, Ellia, our scribe and one of the few literate people in the barony, gave me a quick smile before returning to her ink-stained notes.

  Good people. Loyal. Tired.

  Same as me.

  Merren finally set down the ledger with a sigh. His fingers tapped a staccato rhythm against the wood.

  "Bandits again," he said. "Cutthroats raiding the northern farms. Took livestock this time. Killed two men."

  My jaw tightened.

  Bandits weren't new. Not here. Not with the Empire's hold on the north slipping like rotten rope. Half the minor lords nearby were either dead, hiding, or too busy bleeding each other dry to care.

  But my people—my land—were mine to protect.

  And I was failing them.

  "Where?" I asked.

  "Beyond the Split Rock ridge," Jonas said. "Same group as before, we think. Moving fast. Light armor, horses."

  "Horses," I repeated, voice low.

  Merren nodded grimly. "Means they've got a backer. Could be a rogue noble. Could be worse."

  I rubbed my temples, the beginning of a headache pressing behind my eyes. "I need options."

  "Options?" Merren gave a dry chuckle. "Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but you don't have options. You've got thirty fighting men, most of them green as spring wheat. No reinforcements. No supplies worth the name."

  "Not yet," I said quietly.

  Silence.

  They looked at me, confusion and worry etched into their faces. I didn't blame them. Until now, I'd played it safe. Consolidate. Fortify. Survive.

  But that wasn’t enough anymore.

  I could see it in their eyes. Feel it in the land itself. A slow bleeding out. A death by a thousand cuts.

  If I kept playing defense, we’d die anyway.One raid at a time. One winter at a time.

  And I hadn't survived this long—hadn't clawed my way up from nothing—just to die whimpering in the snow.

  "I’ll ride out," I said, standing.

  Merren stiffened. "Alone?"

  "Not alone. I'll take five riders. Fast. Light."

  Jonas opened his mouth, closed it again. Ellia dropped her quill.

  "You’ll die," Merren said finally. Quiet. Certain.

  "Maybe," I agreed. "But not today."

  I turned, heading for the doors before they could argue. The heavy iron hinges groaned as I pushed them open, the cold night air biting at my skin.

  Above, the sky stretched out in endless blackness, pierced by a million frozen stars.

  I drew a breath.Let it burn through my chest like fire.

  Then I called for my horse.

  The ride north was silent but swift.

  The land unfurled before us—rolling fields dusted with frost, thick woods crouched in the shadows, broken hills jutting like old bones.

  My men were good. Tight formation, eyes sharp, no wasted words.

  But I could feel it—the unease clinging to them like a second skin. The way they glanced at me when they thought I wasn’t looking.

  I didn’t blame them. I wasn’t some chosen hero. No destined king. No last hope of mankind.

  Just a tired man wearing another tired man's skin.

  But maybe—just maybe—that was enough.

  Maybe you didn't need to be chosen to choose.

  Maybe you didn’t need destiny to draw a blade and stand.

  Maybe all you needed was the will to keep standing, even when the world told you to kneel.

  I smiled, teeth cold in the dark.

  Somewhere ahead, in the frozen waste between here and nowhere, bandits waited. Blood would be spilled tonight. Maybe theirs. Maybe mine.

  Didn’t matter.

  For the first time since waking up in this cursed, beautiful, broken world...

  I felt alive.