Wizard of another World

Fire!

Raging fire!

The flames devoured everything in their path.

Silhouettes of people ran wildly through the blaze, struggling helplessly and screaming in despair and agony.

In the end, everything turned to ashes.

"Whew…"

Carl abruptly sat up in bed, breathing heavily, his forehead drenched in sweat, his eyes still filled with terror.

The scene from a few days ago once again replayed in his dreams.

Taking a deep breath, Carl wiped the cold sweat from his forehead. Accompanied by the rustling sound of clothing, he donned a formal outfit and stood before a dressing mirror.

His naturally wavy black hair hung down to his shoulders, his brown eyes still carrying a hint of the daze from just waking up. On the left side of his face was a severe burn scar that marred his otherwise handsome features, turning them almost unrecognizable.

Today was a special occasion, so he had put on an expensive formal suit.

The long, mixed-fabric coat, styled like an old-fashioned suit, was both smooth like silk and textured like leather, accentuating his robust physique.

Carl Bergman, born in the Swick region of the Kingdom of Gondor, now resides in the southern district of Signo City as a city inspector.

His grandfather had followed Marquis Lawrence in numerous battles and was granted a baronetcy for his valor, which was then inherited by Carl's father.

However, a fire a few days ago claimed his father's life, leaving Carl with some burns and mental trauma.

And then...

His soul was replaced by a traveler from another world.

That's right.

The current Carl was a transmigrator, unfamiliar yet somewhat familiar with this world—and his current self.

"It's over. It's all in the past now."

Muttering to himself, Carl steadied his emotions and walked to the door, turning the handle to step out of his bedroom.

The Living Room

The room was arranged in a classic, worn-out European medieval style.

A cabinet filled with relief carvings stood on the left, its bronze drawer handles resembling the design of the door handles, as though crafted by the same maker.

Wooden floors, hardwood tables and chairs, an extinguished kerosene lamp, and a faint blend of vanilla and lemon scents filled the air.

In the corner, stacks of linen cloth seemed to serve as temporary storage for flour and black bread.

"Honorable Baron Carl,"

Jenny, carrying bread and milk from the kitchen, approached with a cheerful smile and bent her knees slightly:

"You're awake. Please enjoy your breakfast."

She was a teenage girl at the prime of her youth, with skin smooth like milk and a unique, melodious voice.

However, she clearly didn't realize her words were inappropriate.

"Jenny!" came the angry voice of Mrs. Mary, the landlady, from behind her:

"Don't joke like that!"

"Yes." Jenny quickly put away her smile and said,

"Carl, I'm sorry."

"It's fine," Carl said with a shake of his head.

"You all eat. I'll head to the church first."

He wasn't a baron—not yet, at least. Inheriting his father's title required some formal procedures.

Inheriting the title meant acknowledging his father's death, which wasn't something worth celebrating.

To the Church

"Three pence," said the coachman.

"Here." Carl handed over the coins.

"Sir, please have a seat!"

As the carriage moved, Carl's thoughts began to turn.

Three pence could buy a decent lunch for an ordinary citizen, yet the church wasn't far away. It seemed being a coachman was a lucrative job.

Out of his instinct as a former working-class man and his unfamiliarity with this world, Carl habitually scrutinized everything around him.

His gaze fell from the coachman to the horse.

The horse pulling the carriage was a gentle, stable breed called the Dun horse, favored by noble ladies. Unsurprisingly, it wasn't cheap.

Adding the meticulously decorated carriage to the calculation, being a coachman required a significant upfront investment and wasn't necessarily a great profession.

"Well... I'm about to become a baron, and my income as a city inspector isn't bad. There's no need to be so frugal like in my past life."

"Even without a baron's fiefdom, just the title alone would be enough for a comfortable life."

"It's just a pity this world isn't as convenient as modern society. There's no sign of technological advancement either—it's more like medieval Europe."

"On the contrary, the church wields significant worldly power. Even the inheritance of a title must go through the church. Ignorance…"

"Or perhaps it isn't ignorance at all!"

Scenes of strange occurrences flashed through Carl's mind, making him shake his head lightly. This world was far from simple.

The carriage stopped some distance from the church, out of respect for the great Lord of Dawn.

The church covered a vast area with a solemn design. Pious believers were holding prayers in the square.

The spire's wheat emblem symbolized part of the Lord of Dawn's authority: abundance.

"Praise the Lord of Dawn..."

Carl bent slightly as he passed others and entered the side door to Father Wick's office.

"Father."

He stepped forward respectfully:

"I'm here to complete the transfer of the baron title."

"Carl Bergman?"

"Yes, that's me."

Father Wick, with his deep features and solemn expression, wore a black clerical robe that exuded an invisible authority.

Looking at Carl, he spoke slowly:

"Your father died protecting civilians from the Fire Raiders. He displayed courage and justice—noble qualities."

"Yes," Carl said, bowing his head, his voice heavy.

"I am proud of him."

"However…" Father Wick's tone shifted:

"After deliberation among the priests, we have decided that his title cannot be inherited."

What?

"Why?"

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