The Cold Heir

The clearing in the forest was super quiet, with a little bit of magic light disappearing into the night. Burnt pieces of what was once a dungeon lay around, and the smell of burnt ground mixed with the fresh, wet air. Everything was still for a while, like the whole world was waiting.

Then, suddenly, Ved Flack burst out from the rubble with a loud, sharp breath.

Nagi slowly opened his eyes, seeing blurry shapes of trees, stars twinkling, and small fires on the ground. The cold air made his breath turn into little clouds as he sat up, feeling sore all over like he'd just run a long race.

"Where... am I?" he muttered, his voice cracking.

The words sounded alien to his ears, not because of what he said, but because of how he said it. His tone was deeper, steadier, and carried an authority he didn't recognize. 

Looking down, his hands—calloused, strong, and unfamiliar—made his chest tighten with unease. He flexed his fingers experimentally, trying to reconcile the sight with the sensation.

"This isn't... me," he whispered, the sound of his own voice making him wince.

Struggling to stand, his movements felt awkward, like he was learning to walk anew. His mind reeled, memories of his last moments flooding back with cruel clarity. The pills, the crushing despair, the suffocating weight of his existence—and then, nothing.

Yet, here he stood.

"Sir!" someone shouted, pulling him from his thoughts.

Nagi turned sharply, his body reacting before his mind could process. Emerging from the shadows were a group of armed individuals—tired, grim-faced, and undeniably alive. Their worn armor and weapons glinted faintly in the moonlight. At their forefront stood a white-haired old man, his eyes filled with a mixture of relief and apprehension.

"You're alive," the old man said, his voice trembling slightly. "We thought... we thought we lost you."

Nagi blinked, his heart pounding in his chest. They were talking to him, and yet... not to him. His pulse quickened as his gaze swept over the group. Every set of eyes was fixed on him with a reverence he didn't understand.

"I..." He hesitated, his mouth dry. "I'm fine."

The lie slipped out instinctively, but it was enough. The group exhaled collectively, the tension in the air easing slightly.

The white-haired man—Ralf, Nagi realized as the name floated into his mind unbidden—stepped forward. "You've been through a lot, sir. Let us escort you back to the ship. You need rest."

"Right," Nagi said, nodding stiffly. His body moved, but his thoughts were miles away.

As they went through the forest, Nagi fought to piece together his situation. The body he inhabited wasn't his. The memories of these people and this place felt like scattered fragments of a puzzle he didn't know how to solve. 

He glanced at the sword strapped to his hip and felt a pang of unease. It felt both foreign and familiar, as if it belonged to someone else—a ghost haunting his movements.

When they finally reached the ship, its massive wooden hull loomed like a fortress against the star-speckled sky. Lanterns hanging from its deck cast warm pools of light that flickered against the surrounding trees. The sight was surreal, like something out of the games Nagi used to play.

As they boarded, the crew dispersed, their expressions a mix of exhaustion and quiet relief. Ralf lingered at Nagi's side, his sharp gaze sweeping over him.

"If I may speak freely, sir," Ralf began hesitantly, "you seem... different."

Nagi tensed, his mind scrambling for an answer. "Different?"

Ralf nodded slowly. "Since the dungeon collapse. It's as if..." He trailed off, shaking his head. "Forgive me. Perhaps it's the stress of battle. I'll leave you to rest."

Nagi exhaled as Ralf walked away, the tension in his chest loosening slightly. The man's words gnawed at him, though. It wouldn't take long for someone to notice that he wasn't who they thought he was.

Inside the captain's quarters, Nagi leaned heavily against the desk, his hands trembling. The room was lavish compared to the cramped studio apartment he remembered. A large map spread across the desk caught his eye, its surface marked with intricate lines and symbols he didn't recognize.

His gaze wandered to a polished silver plate on the desk, and he froze. The reflection staring back at him wasn't his.

The man in the plate has sharp features, piercing icy blue eyes, and hair as dark as night. Nagi touched his face instinctively, feeling the unfamiliar contours of his jaw and cheekbones.

"This isn't real," he whispered, gripping the edges of the desk. "It has to be some kind of dream."

But the ache in his muscles, the rough texture of the desk beneath his palms, and the chill of the air told him otherwise.

A knock at the door made him jump.

"Enter," Nagi said automatically, the word slipping out before he could stop it.

Ralf stepped inside, carrying a tray with a steaming cup of coffee. "I thought this might help, sir."

Nagi accepted the coffee with a nod. "Thanks."

Ralf hesitated, his sharp eyes studying Nagi's face. "If there's anything troubling you, sir, you can speak to me. You've always trusted me."

Nagi forced a small smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

The words seemed to satisfy Ralf, who bowed slightly before leaving. As the door clicked shut, Nagi slumped into the chair, his head in his hands.

He needed answers first about this body, this world, and the man named Ved Flack. And if this was his second chance at life, he wasn't going to waste it.

But first, he needed to survive.