Alexander walked beside the chief butler in measured silence, his pace neither hurried nor hesitant. The white shirt he wore fit his new frame with unsettling precision, the fabric stretching smoothly across broad shoulders before tapering cleanly at the waist.
Navy trousers followed the lines of muscle with tailored discipline, the color deep and muted, echoing the banners that adorned the estate's corridors.
He allowed himself only discreet glances as they moved forward.
The mansion was vast, constructed in a style that favored elegance over ostentation. White marble floors extended in uninterrupted sheets, veined faintly with silver that caught the cool light emanating from mana-infused sconces along the walls.
Those lights did not burn with flame; instead, they radiated a restrained blue glow, as if the building itself preferred composure over warmth. Tall arched windows lined the corridor, framed in navy drapery that fell in structured folds, their fabric heavy enough to suggest both wealth and defense.
The ceiling rose high above, ribbed in pale stone and etched with thin, deliberate channels through which faint currents of mana pulsed. It was not merely decoration. It was infrastructure.
This was a house built not just to be admired, but to endure.
Servants stepped aside as he approached. Maids in black dresses trimmed with white aprons lowered their gazes just enough to signal respect without reverence. Footmen in crisp white coats shifted subtly out of the path, posture straight, movements disciplined.
Yet despite their training, he noticed it.
Quick, assessing glances.
Withdrawn the instant his golden eyes drifted even slightly in their direction.
Then came the whispers.
"And here we thought he would improve in the academy…"
"It hasn't even been one day."
"Young Master is finished. The Lord has been waiting for quite some time."
"He even sent the Chief Butler."
The words reached him with unnatural clarity.
Alexander kept his expression composed, though a faint tightening at the corner of his mouth betrayed irritation before it smoothed itself away.
The clarity unsettled him more than the content.
The servants were not speaking loudly. Some of them stood several paces away. And yet every syllable carried to him as though spoken beside his ear.
I do not remember possessing hearing like this.
Either this body is far more refined than my previous one, or…
He glanced sideways at the man walking beside him.
The chief butler's posture remained immaculate, gloved hands folded behind his back as he guided the way without comment. His silver hair was combed neatly away from a lined but steady face, and there was something in his bearing that suggested decades of measured loyalty.
It was fortunate this man waited.
Without him, I would not even know where this "Lord" awaited.
Let's hope I can at least get some answers from him.
They turned a final corner and entered a broader hall where the architecture opened upward into a vaulted space. Twin staircases curved elegantly toward a second level, their railings carved from pale stone, the edges traced with silver filigree.
Between them hung a vast tapestry in white and navy thread, depicting a dragon coiled around a vertical blade, its tail encircling a crescent crest.
Power, stylized into heraldry.
They continued forward until the corridor narrowed once more, ending at a pair of imposing double doors fashioned from dark polished wood. Silver inlays traced the grain in elaborate patterns—crossed swords, spears, shields, and dragons intertwined among them.
Every engraving had been carved with painstaking care, the weapons rendered so precisely that one could almost mistake them for real steel embedded into the surface.
The chief butler came to a stop as Alexander did the same.
For a brief moment, silence stretched between them as they looked at each other. The butler regarded him without impatience, though there was no encouragement in his gaze either.
Finally, the older man lifted a gloved hand and indicated the doors with a restrained gesture.
"Go in, Young Master."
Alexander blinked once, then glanced toward the doors as if confirming the instruction required no further elaboration. When he looked back, the butler's expression had not shifted.
There would be no escort beyond this point.
Of course.
Alexander turned toward the carved wood, placed his palm against its cool surface, and pushed the doors open.
The chamber was vast, its ceiling high enough that the light from the tall western windows seemed to descend in pale shafts rather than fall. For a brief moment, the sound of the doors closing behind him echoed softly across polished stone.
And then he saw him.
Long white hair stirred faintly against dark fabric as a man stood with his back to the room, hands clasped behind him in a posture so perfectly composed it felt less like habit and more like something carved into existence. He did not shift at the sound of entry. He did not need to.
He wore a high-collared coat of deep midnight blue, the shade so dark it bordered on black, its cuffs and shoulders adorned with restrained silver embroidery that caught the light only when he moved.
Over his breast was stitched the sigil of his house—a vertical blade entwined by a dragon, the same one that Alex saw on the way here. Beneath the coat, layered fabrics of black and muted steel-grey hinted at both courtly refinement and readiness for battle.
Alexander's heartbeat, which had been steady until now, slowed involuntarily.
The man turned.
Golden eyes met his own.
Piercing, luminous, unnervingly clear, holding authority sharpened over decades.
And in that instant, a voice thundered inside his mind.
"Witness the grace of Duke, the Dragon Sword—Magnus Valecrest… in Fractured Crown."
The echo reverberated with cinematic intensity, the same dramatic cadence he remembered from the character trailers.
This—this isn't—
Before his thoughts could assemble themselves into coherence, a calm, cold voice cut through the air.
"Damon Valecrest… you are a shame to the noble house of Valecrest."
Alexander's body stiffened instinctively.
The tone was not loud, yet it struck with the force of a blade. For a fleeting second, he felt as though he were standing before his real father again, measured disappointment wrapped in absolute authority.
Magnus Valecrest regarded him without warmth. There was no rage in his gaze, only unmistakable disgust.
"Bullying your fellow classmate on the first day," the Duke continued evenly, "and beating him. A boy clearly weaker than yourself. You are nothing but a disgrace."
The words fell without hesitation, without exaggeration.
"Hmph. But do not assume you will get what you want."
His voice hardened, though it never rose.
"You will not be expelled from the academy. All privileges previously granted to you will be revoked. You will be permitted only a single servant at your side. And you will personally apologize to the student in question."
Alexander stood silent, as his fingers clenched tightly.
Inwardly, his thoughts moved with rapid clarity.
So this body… it belongs to the Duke's son….Inside a Game!?
And the one who defeated Lucian in the prologue.
….Damon… Valecrest.
The name settled heavily into place.
The Duke's eyes narrowed slightly when no response came.
"This is your final chance," Magnus said, his voice gaining the faintest edge. "If I receive another complaint regarding your conduct, there will be no place for someone like you in the noble house of Valecrest."
The air in the room seemed to tighten.
"You will depart tomorrow."
"Get lost."
He turned his back once more.
Damon remained where he stood for a few seconds, the weight of the exchange pressing against his chest in a way that had nothing to do with fear and everything to do with recognition.
Different world.
Same father.
Slowly, he turned and walked back toward the doors he had entered through. They opened without resistance and closed behind him with muted finality.
The corridor beyond was empty.
Where moments ago servants had lingered in cautious clusters, there was now nothing but polished marble and silent banners. No maids. No butlers. Not even the chief butler remained.
The estate had withdrawn from him.
Damon let out a quiet, humorless laugh.
"Whether it's the real world or not…" he murmured under his breath.
His steps carried him forward without direction at first. Through corridors and branching hallways lined in white and navy, beneath vaulted ceilings and along polished floors that reflected his solitary figure back at him in faint distortion.
His pace quickened gradually.
His jaw tightened.
His hands clenched at his sides.
Fractured Crown….
Damon Valecrest…
Academy…
The words circled like vultures.
He walked until, without quite realizing how, he found himself standing before another door half open…
He exhaled slowly, lips parting as if to release something heavier than breath.
Then he reached forward and pushed it open, stepping inside.
It was quieter here, too quiet, and the air carried the faint scent of aged oak and distilled fruit. A young attendant stationed near the inner archway startled at his sudden entrance.
"Y–Young Master, this area is—"
"Get lost."
The words came flat and sharp. Damon did not slow.
When the attendant hesitated, he shoved him aside with one hand. The movement was not brutal, but it was forceful enough that the young butler stumbled backward, nearly losing his balance before retreating immediately, head lowered, shoulders trembling.
The door swung shut behind him.
The chamber was not large, but it was indulgent.
Dark mahogany shelves lined the walls, carved with delicate filigree that mirrored the estate's white-and-navy aesthetic. Crystal decanters rested in symmetrical rows, their contents glowing amber, ruby, and gold under soft mana-lights embedded discreetly into the cabinetry.
Silver racks held imported bottles sealed in wax, their labels etched in elegant script. A long counter of polished white stone stretched across the center, its surface inlaid with thin veins of blue crystal that shimmered faintly.
Damon strode to the cabinet and flung it open with more force than necessary. Glass rattled inside.
He seized the first bottle his hand landed on and examined it briefly, though he barely registered the label. With an abrupt twist, he tore the cork free, the sharp pop echoing against the stone.
A crystal glass sat nearby.
He poured without restraint.
The deep red liquid filled the glass, catching the light in slow ripples.
He lifted it—and drank the entire glass in one motion.
The burn hit instantly, sharp and hot as it traveled down his throat.
He poured again.
This time he drank only half before his grip tightened, as he smashed it with the fury.
The glass shattered against the floor with a violent crack.
Wine splashed across white stone, staining it in dark red streaks as shards scattered outward.
"Motherfucker."
The curse tore out of him, raw and unfiltered.
Then he laughed.
Loud.
Unsteady.
"Hah… hahahahah—"
The sound bordered on hysterical, rising and breaking unevenly.
"Ridiculous… wasn't it enough that I had to live a hellish life only to be betrayed by the only person I wanted to trust?"
His shoulders trembled, though whether from rage or something deeper was unclear.
"And now I get pushed into a trash game?"
His voice cracked at the edges.
"Aaaaahhh!"
The scream tore through the chamber, reverberating off polished stone and wood.
He grabbed the bottle from the counter and turned, storming out without another glance at the shattered glass behind him.
The corridors outside were empty.
Silent.
Too silent.
He walked fast, drinking directly from the bottle now, the liquid spilling at the corner of his mouth as he tilted his head back.
"Where is everyone?" he shouted, his voice echoing through the vaulted halls. "Ran away like cowards? Come out!"
His steps grew less steady, though his pace did not slow.
"Come on… come out!"
The estate swallowed his voice ,as he took another long drink.
Then quieter, almost swallowed by his own breathing—
"I—I just want to speak with someone…"
His chest rose and fell heavily. He rounded a corner into a narrower service passage and stopped.
They were there ,clustered together in the confined space like birds cornered in a cage.
Maids. Footmen. Junior attendants.
Pressed shoulder to shoulder, faces pale, eyes wide.
No one spoke.
No one moved.
Damon's gaze swept over them without focus at first—
—and then halted.
A maid stood near the front of the cluster, light brown hair tied into a messy bun at the nape of her neck. A few loose strands framed her face. Her eyes—similar in color, warm but now filled with fear—trembled under his stare.
She looked more mature than the others.
He stepped toward her, unsteady but deliberate.
"You—"
His hand shot forward and closed around her wrist.
She flinched as he pulled her out from the cluster, ignoring the sharp intakes of breath behind her.
"Come with me."