Chapter 1: Transmigration

Year 3859 of the Faerûnian Historical Calendar:

On the northern edge of the continent of Faerûn, by an unremarkable coastline, there were seven fishing villages. At first, to resist the yearly raids of orcish bandits, the fishermen decided to form an alliance for mutual support. To commemorate the birth of this league, the shaman-king Danath of Giles created a new calendar. Thus, the seven villages that swore the oath established a new nation, a confederation named Sevinton.

The era of the Founding began!

In that moment, immense joy reigned in Sevinton. People celebrated taking their first step toward civilization and praised the wisdom of their king.

Not long after, King Danath changed the country’s name to “Natheril,” meaning the Land of Danath. Yet Natheril soon sank into decadence, oppressing the people with heavy taxes and levies, so much so that the alliance members feared Natheril would soon collapse. Discontent and calls for rebellion spread within, and the people grew deeply anxious about the nation’s future.

Year 3827 of the Faerûnian Calendar.

At last, a poisoned dagger put an end to King Danath’s rule...

Five hundred and twelve years later, in the year 3315:

Gordon Eolem’s castle was located in the great southern forests of Sevinton’s royal city, though he himself was merely a minor country noble. There were hundreds of such nobles with small rural fiefs around Sevinton.

Viscount Gordon had a youngest son named Eolem Bourne, whom many privately called “the simpleton.”

When word of this nickname reached the viscount’s ears, a dozen corpses were soon hung from the outer walls of the castle. Afterward, no one in the fief dared speak of it again, but the shameful title had already spread, and all the neighboring nobles for miles around knew it.

It was an inborn sluggishness of reaction—if he fell and hurt himself, it took him half a day to react. No matter how many physicians and priests they consulted—more than a dozen!—none could offer a cure for this strange affliction.

Given the tangled relationships among the nobility and the number of infants born each year in Faerûn with peculiar maladies, it was not all that uncommon. The divine magic of the temple priests could heal wounds from sword and arrow, and some apothecaries could cure fevers and colds, but for stranger diseases, one could only pray for the gods’ protection.

Bourne’s mother died not long after his birth. Yet even so, the child tenaciously survived to the age of three, and fortunately, his “illness” gradually eased as he grew. This amazed those who had expected his demise, and news of the god-blessed Bourne spread swiftly.

Viscount Gordon was not particularly devout; though a knight, he placed his faith more in the goddess of magic, Mystra (a difference that will be explained later).

His title was won through military merit, but most of all, because he had a remarkable father:

Count Eolem, the High Arcanist!

Within the castle, in a spacious, well-lit chamber, thick cushions covered the floor to prevent Bourne from hurting himself if he fell due to his slow reactions.

Three years had passed, and Bourne could now walk on his own without falling and communicate normally, bringing tears of relief to the viscount’s eyes. Yet his body still lagged a beat behind—if something fell from above, an ordinary person would dodge, but Bourne could not.

The viscount noticed Bourne’s fondness for watching the rain, often falling asleep at the window, so he moved the child’s bed near it.

Birdsong drifted through the morning air. Bourne opened his eyes, stretched lazily, and slowly got to his feet. Two maids were already waiting, adeptly helping him dress.

Bourne was a transmigrant—a child’s body hosting the soul of an adult.

After the initial mystery of being “in the womb,” he gradually realized his soul was different from others in this world.

Past-life wisdom began to awaken.

His memories of his previous life were blurred—a kaleidoscope of fleeting images, with no clear name or identity. He only remembered a world of dazzling color, where machines of steel soared the skies and dived beneath the seas, and a palm-sized box could bridge thousands of miles for a conversation, even allowing one to see the other’s face through a screen.

From birth, Bourne could recall everything. His first week in this world was one of confusion; the very moment he arrived, he felt the world’s intense hostility. His soul was like a small boat in a storm, battered for a whole week.

Everything around him seemed to move in fast-forward, and though present, he felt as if he existed in a different dimension. Fortunately, as soul and body gradually fused, he adjusted to this new world’s rhythm.

He discovered that as he grew, memories of his previous life returned, and more importantly, his mental strength increased with age—his memory grew ever sharper!

By the age of one, Bourne could express himself more fluently than other children his age. He knew this was due to a rising mental prowess that enhanced his memory. In his previous life, he had spent seven years learning a language called “English,” yet still stammered when he spoke.

With spring’s arrival, the maids opened the window and a breeze carrying the scent of flowers drifted in. Below was the garden—this had once been Bourne’s mother’s room before he moved in.

The viscount had felt something special for Bourne’s mother. After her death, he never sought a new wife—an unusual thing among the nobles, whose private lives were notoriously chaotic. For a viscount to have a dozen lovers and several illegitimate children was normal, but Gordon showed no interest in other noblewomen.

Bourne made his way to the study in the castle. Rows of books, large and small, lined the shelves in neat order, evidence of regular cleaning.

Viscount Gordon and Knight Commander John sat at a round table, delicate porcelain cups before them. Bourne recognized the Eolem family’s unique malt tea. Most wizards abstained from alcohol, and Count Eolem strictly forbade his family to drink. The tradition of malt tea had become a family hallmark, renowned even in Sevinton.

“Father, Uncle John,” Bourne greeted them with a bow. He was a refined little child, his early hardships making him precociously mature, which only deepened the affection of those who cared for him.

Uncle John was officially a retainer of House Eolem, but in truth, he and the viscount were as close as brothers. Compared to the somewhat inept Gordon, the knight commander was every bit the nobleman—a high-ranking knight, no less.

Their family’s retainers had served for generations. The count’s wife, Gordon’s mother, was John’s aunt, and their ancestors had always maintained this bond—a retainer to serve and protect each generation’s master.

Just a few days before, John’s wife had given birth to a daughter, who would, in all likelihood, become Bourne’s protector as well.

“Have a seat,” the viscount said, gesturing to a nearby armchair.

Bourne nodded and sat, awaiting his father’s next instructions.

“Bourne, after careful thought, I have decided to approve your request from last time,” the viscount said, though worry lingered in his eyes. “You’ve been weak since childhood; a bit of exercise will do you good. Given your unique condition, you’ll study reading with Scholar Rodney in the mornings, and in the afternoons, learn combat skills with your Uncle John.”

“Thank you, Father!” Bourne could barely contain his joy. Though elated, he kept his expression neutral. He’d only hoped to improve his body’s coordination, but now he’d also gain early access to this world’s knowledge.

After three years in this world, aside from servants’ gossip and local anecdotes, Bourne knew almost nothing of it! Fear springs from ignorance—he was desperate to understand this world as soon as possible.

Noticing the child’s tension, Knight Commander John reassured him, “Don’t worry, starting tomorrow, the other children in the castle will join you in training.”

The viscount stroked Bourne’s head gently. “Later, your Uncle John will teach you the Eolem family’s secret technique—the breathing method. Practice it daily; it will help your health.”

“Yes,” Bourne replied.

At that moment, old butler Walker entered. “My lord, Scholar Rodney has arrived.”

“Very well, have him wait in the drawing room. I’ll come shortly.”

“Yes, my lord.”

The butler withdrew. The viscount exchanged a few more words with the knight commander, glanced at Bourne, then left.

Once he was gone, the knight commander pressed a few points on Bourne’s body, instructing him to watch closely as he moved to the center of the study to demonstrate.

Bourne was filled with anticipation—after all, this was a technique from another world, not the common “qigong” of his past life.

Knowing Bourne’s slow reflexes, the knight commander carefully recited the breathing technique, explaining each phrase and having Bourne repeat after him. By the third run, he demonstrated every detail.

Having watched Bourne grow up, John knew the boy was actually very bright, with a strong capacity to learn, despite his strange condition.

But he was surprised at how quickly Bourne memorized the technique. By the fourth repetition, the child could recite it perfectly.

But knowing the method meant little if one’s body couldn’t follow—especially given Bourne’s lack of coordination, which made it all the more difficult!

The breathing technique had many requirements—a precise rhythm of inhalation, exhalation, and breath-holding, with numerous taboos. Without guidance, a beginner could never master it. Its only advantage was that it required no special posture; one could practice sitting or lying down.

Despite the knight commander’s wealth of teaching experience, Bourne’s case was unique. Though he’d memorized the key points, his body simply wouldn’t obey.

After a moment’s thought, the knight commander suddenly pressed his hand to Bourne’s abdomen.

“Now, just follow the feeling,” he said quietly.

“Alright…”

No sooner had he spoken than Bourne felt control of his body slip away.

The knight commander’s hands vibrated at high speed.

Bourne was astonished—he could feel even his internal organs’ breathing movements completely taken over! He had thought that being a “professional” merely meant higher combat power, but John, usually so unassuming, was truly formidable!

Suppressing his shock, Bourne concentrated on the sensations. By the third repetition, John was already steaming with white heat.

Blushing with gratitude, Bourne used the lingering sensation in his body to begin practicing on his own.

...

(P.S. This is a fantasy novel anyone can understand—even if you know nothing about D/VD or have never played a dungeon game, you’ll find it easy to follow.)