Identity

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Fire!

Blazing fire!

The flames devoured everything.

Figures ran frantically through the inferno, struggling helplessly as they let out piercing screams and cries of anguish.

In the end,

everything turned to ash.

"Phew..."

Karl abruptly sat up in bed, breathing hard. Sweat beaded his forehead, and fear still lingered in his eyes.

The scene from a few days ago had appeared in his dreams again.

After steadying himself and wiping the cold sweat from his brow, he changed into formal clothes amid a rustle of fabric, then stood before the full-length mirror.

His slightly curly black hair fell to his shoulders. His brown eyes were still hazy with sleep, and a severe burn scar marred his left cheek. It ruined his sharply defined features and made his otherwise handsome face difficult to look at.

He had something to take care of today, so he had deliberately put on an expensive suit.

The blended-fabric long coat resembled an old-fashioned Western suit. It had the smoothness of silk and the texture of fur, and it accentuated his sturdy build beneath the clothes.

Karl Bergman, born in the Sveek Region of the Kingdom of Gondo, now living in the southern district of Signo City, a city inspector...

His grandfather had followed Marquis Lawrence on many military campaigns and, for his bravery, had been granted the title of Baron. His father had inherited it.

A fire a few days ago had taken his father's life, while leaving him with burns and psychological trauma.

And then...

His soul had been replaced by that of a transmigrator from another world.

That was right.

The current Karl was a transmigrator, and this world—including "himself"—felt both familiar and strange.

"It's over."

"It's all over!"

Muttering to his reflection, Karl composed himself, went to the door, turned the handle, and opened his bedroom.

The living room.

A shabby, classical European medieval style met his eyes.

A heavily carved cabinet stood on the left side of the room. The antique-brass drawer pulls matched the design of the doorknob, suggesting they came from the same manufacturer.

Wooden flooring, hardwood furniture, an extinguished oil lamp, and the scent of vanilla and lemon filled the room.

A pile of linen in the corner, its purpose unclear, served as a temporary home for flour and dark bread.

"Good morning, Baron Karl."

Jenny came from the kitchen carrying slices of bread and milk. Smiling brightly, she slowly bent her knees in a curtsy.

"You're awake. Please have breakfast."

She was a young girl in her teens, at an age of innocent cheer. Her skin was as smooth as milk, and her voice was distinctive, clear, and pleasant.

But she clearly hadn't realized that her words were inappropriate.

"Jenny!" The landlady Mary's voice rang out behind her, thick with anger.

"Don't joke around like that."

"Yes."

Jenny's smile faded.

"Karl, I'm sorry."

"It's all right." Karl shook his head.

"Go ahead and eat. I'll head to the church first."

He wasn't a baron—not yet, anyway. Inheriting his father's title required going through a few formalities.

Inheriting the title meant his father had died. It wasn't something to celebrate.

"To the church."

"Three pence."

"Here."

"Sir, please sit properly!"

As he climbed into the carriage, Karl's thoughts began to turn.

Three pence was enough for an ordinary citizen to enjoy a decent lunch, and the church wasn't far away.

It seemed being a coachman was a pretty good profession.

Out of the instinctive caution of someone who had worked for a living in his previous life, and because this world was unfamiliar to him, he habitually scrutinized everything around him.

His gaze moved down from the coachman to the horse.

The horse pulling the carriage was a small breed called a Duma horse. It was gentle and had a steady pace, making it a favorite among noblewomen.

Of course,

it wasn't cheap.

The carriage was also carefully furnished, and that must have cost a great deal too.

All things considered, becoming a coachman required a hefty initial investment. It might not be such a good line of work after all.

"Well... I'll be a baron soon, and a city inspector's salary isn't bad. There's no need to pinch pennies like I did in my previous life."

"Even without a barony, a baronial title is enough to let me live comfortably."

"It's just a pity that this place isn't as convenient as modern society, and I haven't found any signs of emerging technology. It's more like medieval Europe."

"On the other hand, the Church's authority is more worldly. Even the inheritance of titles has to go through the Church. How backward..."

"Maybe it isn't backward after all!"

Memories of the "strange" scenes he had witnessed made Karl shake his head. This world was not so simple.

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

The church stood on a vast plot of land, its design solemn. Devout believers were gathered in the square, praying.

The spire was the most striking feature. The sheaf of wheat atop it symbolized one aspect of the Lord of Dawn's divine authority.

Abundance!

"May the Lord of Dawn watch over us..."

Karl bowed slightly as he passed the person approaching from the opposite direction, then entered Father Vic's office through a side door.

"Father."

He stepped forward and spoke respectfully.

"I've come to handle the transfer of the baronial title."

"Karl Bergman?"

"That's me."

Father Vic's features were sharply defined, and his expression was stern. His black clerical robes lent him an intangible air of authority.

Looking at Karl, he spoke slowly.

"Your father died resisting the Fire Thief and protecting the common people. He possessed the noble qualities of bravery and justice."

"Yes." Karl lowered his head, his voice subdued.

"I'm proud of him."

"However..." Father Vic changed the subject.

"After discussion among several priests, we've decided that his title cannot be inherited."

What?

"Why?"

Karl looked surprised, then quickly recovered.

"I don't mean to question you, Father. It's just that my father's bravery and fearlessness were recognized by the City Lord."

"A noble must possess more than courage and justice. He must also be devout." Father Vic clasped his hands together.

"Unfortunately, we saw no devotion to the Lord of Dawn in him."

"No!" Karl spoke firmly.

"Before every meal, my father prayed with me. Around the holy festivals, he never touched meat or alcohol."

"His devotion cannot be questioned!"

Whether it was true or not, he had to say it.

The baronial title was vital to him. Without it, he would be nothing more than a commoner.

He might not even be able to hold on to his position as a city inspector.

In this era, commoners ranked only a little above serfs. In his eyes, they lived in truly wretched conditions.

The thought made Karl's heart tighten.

"Father, could there be some misunderstanding?"

"A misunderstanding? There's no misunderstanding!"

Father Vic shook his head, his expression solemn, and asked,

"Karl, what month is it?"

"Nine..." Karl corrected himself.

"The Month of Abundance."

"Indeed." Father Vic sighed.

"In the Month of Abundance, even the serfs in the city bring us dark bread. Yet your father lived in Signo City for years and never offered us anything."

Karl opened his mouth.

His family had never given anything to the church, but they had always paid their tithe on time and in full.

Still, that argument probably wouldn't sway Father Vic.

His gaze paused on the delicate, obviously expensive bracelet around the priest's wrist. Karl lowered his head in silence and fell into thought.

(The End)