A New place

"Don't let him escape!" someone shouted, the command sharp and clear even through the howling wind.

A skinny boy, clad in expensive-looking clothes now drenched and heavy with snow, was running. His face was flushed crimson, and his breaths came in ragged, desperate gasps. 

Behind him, a group of figures, armed with swords and spears, were in close pursuit. Their shouts held a venom, leaving no doubt about his fate if they closed the distance. 

He was running for his life. He frantically looked around, but the swirling snow made it almost impossible to see anything.

He wanted to escape them, but knew he couldn't do anything alone. So, he started asking God for a miracle, though deep down he knew it wouldn't make any difference. God had never answered him or his prayers before. It was only a matter of time before they would inevitably catch him.

An arrow brushed past him, so close he staggered, barely missing him.

"Oh, I missed. I thought I'd get him this time," the archer grumbled to his fellow mate.

"Look how it's done," his comrade scoffed.

"You think you can shoot him from this distance?"

"Yes, just watch and learn."

Before the comrade could nock an arrow, the man closest to the boy lunged and caught him. Still stunned by the arrow's near miss, the boy offered no resistance as he was seized. The hunt was over.

Everyone in the group circled the boy.

"Damn, he was already caught. Otherwise, I would have shown you my amazing archery skills."

"Yeah, yeah. Now focus on the mission. Look, he's here."

A carriage came into view and stopped near the group.

"If he had a carriage, why were we running like madmen?" a voice muttered.

"He wanted to scare the shit out of him."

"That's intense."

"Even I wouldn't go that far."

"Well, he knows how to break his enemy completely so they wouldn't stand a chance next time."

"But there's no next time."

"You're right about that."

A large man stepped out of the carriage, and everyone immediately snapped to attention. Everyone stood in order, as if waiting for the next command. The imposing figure was Gilbert Hawks, Captain of the Shadow Corps. He walked straight towards the captured boy.

The man who had seized the boy now held him suspended by one hand, his grip like iron on the boy's clothes. The boy, a mere teenager, wasn't very tall and exceptionally skinny among his peers. He struggled, squirming as he was lifted, desperate to break free.

Hawk came close, his gaze sweeping over the boy before he spoke, his voice cold. "Make sure he is dead."

The man nodded, a silent acknowledgment. Hawk then turned and walked back to his carriage, as if the matter was already concluded. Soon, everyone began to disperse, leaving only five people, including the boy.

"What should we do now?" one man asked, breaking the silence.

"Do we just beat him to death?" another grunted.

"That's too time-consuming."

"So, what do you suggest?"

"Just stab him and let him bleed to his death."

A moment of silence passed.

"Let's do that. I don't want to stay here any longer."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah, just stab him in a vital point."

"Okay, you do it then."

"Fine, fine. I'll do it."

One of the men produced a small knife and pointed it at the boy. Tears streamed down the boy's face, mixing with snot. "Why?... Why are you doing this?" he cried out, his voice choked with sobs.

"Did he say something?" the man with the knife asked the one holding the boy.

The other man shrugged.

"You know what? Turn him around. I don't like the look on his face. I won't sleep peacefully if I stab him like this."

"Just do it, don't make it complicated," a voice urged impatiently.

"As I said, turn his face around."

The man let out a sigh and turned the boy around.

"...For crying out loud, do it already."

"Yeah, yeah."

The man plunged the knife into the boy's body, and a loud, agonizing cry tore from his throat.

"Cover his mouth, will you?"

The boy struggled frantically against the overwhelming pain, but he was too weak. The other man clamped a hand over his mouth. The assailant then twisted the knife in the wound. The boy's body arched, a silent scream convulsing through him, but no sound escaped. Blood began to gush out, first in drops, then in a steady stream, rapidly turning the pristine snow crimson.

"Just leave him here. He'll bleed out and die."

"Shouldn't we wait for him to die?"

"Oh, come on. There's nothing here but plain land. Even if he survives this, where will he go? He'll die one way or another."

The man dropped the boy like a sack. The boy was in so much pain, he didn't want to move. He yearned for death over the continued agony.

Soon, there was no one left.

And that was it. The boy should have died.

But he was not only alive, he was back in his room. I died back then. No... The owner of this body died back then.

He stared into the mirror, and a face he didn't recognize stared back. He was in someone else's body. The room he found himself in was the previous owner's study. His own name was Hiroto Himakawa, and he was a normal high school student just a few days before. But now, he was inhabiting this unknown body.

He remembered fainting in that forest. From what he'd been told, he was found near a settlement. Seeing the symbol on his clothes, the person who discovered him understood the boy was a noble. The rescuer wasn't knowledgeable enough to recognize the specific family symbol. Still, fearing trouble if a noble died near his home, he took the boy to someone who knew about noble families. That person immediately recognized the family symbol and somehow contacted the family, which led to the boy being brought to this room.

This boy's name was Hemal Rodrick, the second son of the Rodrick family. The Rodrick family had three children: the first son, Carl Rodrick, Hemal Rodrick, and a daughter, Luna Rodrick. Hemal was the youngest of the three, and Luna was the eldest. Still, Carl was first in succession because Luna was a girl. Yet, these family politics had nothing to do with Hemal. He was never considered to be the head of the family because he was weak and outshone by his elder brother.

It took Hemal three days to wake up. And when he did, he remembered everything. Still, it didn't explain why he was here, in the body of someone who was supposed to be dead. Hiroto had been holed up in the room under the pretense that he was too weak to go out. But sooner or later, he would have to face someone.

He couldn't deny the fact that someone out there wanted him dead. He clearly remembered Captain Hawks, the one who'd ordered his demise. And behind Hawks, there was undoubtedly someone else. He wanted to cry. Here he was, in an unknown place, and someone wanted him dead for reasons he couldn't fathom.

He looked at the mirror once again. The boy staring back had white hair and golden eyes.

Golden eyes, he thought, I've never heard of anyone having golden eyes. And what was with this Rodrick family? Is it some gangster family that ran underground businesses? 

He gulped at the thought. It would certainly make sense why someone wanted to kill him.

He sat on the bed, staring at nothing, a deep ache rising within him. He wanted nothing more than to return to his original body. The memories of this body's owner, Hemal, were still foggy, and every time he tried to recall something, a new, often awful, memory surfaced.

Hemal was merely the son of the second wife, Lusiya, who had tragically died when Hemal was just two years old. They said a maid had poisoned her tea, and the maid was sentenced to death. But everyone knew the maid was just a scapegoat; the real culprit remained hidden. Only the maid knew who it was, and with her death, the truth was buried.

Years passed, and the incident faded from memory. Hemal's life, however, only grew worse. He remembered the time Hemal's elder brother, Carl, stole their father's sword, damaged it, and then shifted all the blame onto Hemal. Hemal protested his innocence, but his own father never believed him.

Another time, Carl took a significant debt under Hemal's name, a sum Hemal was utterly unaware of. When the moneylender came knocking at the Rodrick family's doors, demanding their unpaid money, the family was forced to pay it all. 

No one believed Hemal's claims that he had never taken any money. As punishment, he was sent to a jail in the basement and starved for a week. When he was finally freed, no one came to see him; guards took him to a room that was no better than a prison cell. He had lost count of how many times he had been misunderstood and blamed for things he didn't do.

Even Luna, his elder sister, disliked him. He remembered overhearing her talking to her friends: 'Hemal?... He has nothing to do with me. He just causes trouble every time I hear about him. I feel so disgusted to be related to him.' Luna never physically harmed him; she kept her distance as if he didn't exist. Yet, if he dared to touch any of her belongings, she would slap him and reprimand him, treating him like any other servant in the house.

Their father was rarely home, and whenever he was, he remained consumed by his work, oblivious to the turmoil within his own home. And the first wife? She was another matter entirely. She would seize every opportunity to scold Hemal, and her scolding invariably escalated into physical beatings.

I'm part of such a family now. To be honest, I just wanted to run away, he thought, the revelation sinking in.

He knew it was a feverish dream, one that would likely never come true. But who wanted him dead? The Rodrick family certainly had many reasons to get rid of him. Yet, if it were the Rodrick family, he wouldn't be alive right now, being nursed back to health in their home. That meant it wasn't the Rodrick family behind the assassination attempt.

While he was still pondering this terrifying thought, a knock echoed at the door.