Asher blinked and found himself staring at an unfamiliar ceiling.
It was wooden, old-school, with thick beams crossing over one another. Some dust floated down in the morning light, slipping through a cracked window to his left. The whole place smelled of rotting roses and fresh air. Kind of cozy, honestly.
'Hm. Guess I really am in a new world... or old one, I guess. Unless someone out there is really into cosplaying as a medieval motherfucker.'
He sat up, feeling the soft, way-too-fluffy bed under him, and glanced around.
The room was simple but nice—a sturdy wooden dresser, a massive wardrobe that looked like it could swallow a grown man whole, and a small desk covered in parchment and weird-looking pens.
Getting up, he wandered over to the window, pulling the heavy curtains aside fully.
Outside, far from the mansion he appeared to be in, he could see the city.
His eyes were pretty good to see from that distance, but he didn't bother to think about why that was. He preferred to scan the world instead, and that was what he did.
The city stretched out below him—old stone streets, carriages rumbling along, people walking about in cloaks and tunics. Some of them weren't even people—there were cat-eared girls selling bread, a lizard-headed dude arguing with a blacksmith, and even what looked like a walking ball of fur with legs.
'Huh.'
Turning away, Asher spotted a tall mirror leaning against the wall.
He got closer and gave himself a look-over.
Asher looked... well, he looked like himself. Only way younger.
Sixteen, maybe seventeen. His long hair was pure white—not the cool platinum anime kind either, but more like somebody had dunked him in bleach and left him there too long.
His face was pretty decent, he guessed—sharp-ish jawline, clear skin, eyes the same boring black they'd always been.
He had some muscle here and there, but there was definitely a layer of chub. Like a guy who lifted weights but never stopped eating cheeseburgers.
All in all, not too bad.
Just as he was done admiring this new and improved—sort of—version of himself, there was a polite knock at the door.
A maid peeked in—a young woman with short brown hair tucked under a bonnet, wearing the classic black-and-white uniform.
She bowed slightly.
"Young Master Asher."
Her voice was as soft as she looked.
"Your parents request your presence at the breakfast table."
Asher blinked at her for a second, then gave a small nod.
He walked over to the wardrobe and threw the doors open.
The maid hesitated like she was about to come help him dress, but Asher just waved a hand at her.
"Thanks, but I got it. You can go."
The poor girl looked like she'd just been slapped with a really salty fish.
Her mouth opened, then closed, and she scurried off without another word.
Weird.
He pulled on a simple outfit—dark pants, a loose white shirt that tied at the collar, and a dark jacket that looked unnecessarily fancy. It was soft, though. Comfy. He tucked the shirt in—because manners—and laced up some worn leather boots.
'Good enough.'
Stepping into the hall, he took it all in.
The place was huge—thick red carpets running along the floor, wooden walls hung with old oil paintings and the occasional mounted sword or shield.
Light streamed in from tall windows, casting everything in a morning glow.
It was beautiful.
If Asher wasn't so, well, deranged, he would've stopped and admired the view for a second.
But because Asher was Asher, he continued on his way... yet, even he wasn't immune to stopping in his tracks.
He stopped before a big painting on the wall.
A family portrait.
Five people stood proudly in it: a tall, broad-shouldered, hulking man with stern purple eyes, big beard, and familiar white hair, a graceful woman with matching purple eyes and a kind smile that didn't quite reach her eyes, a cocky-looking older brother, a beautiful older sister with a reserved expression... and finally, a younger version of him.
Except—his eyes were black. Everyone else had royal, vibrant purple.
'Hm... That explains the maid's reaction. Guess I'm some kind of weak outcast in this house. That's a bit cliché, but at least there's a reason for it. That's sometimes more than you can ask from most authors... Or maybe I'm expecting more out of 'Them.' Still, it's a decent start. This'd do well as the beginning for a fanfic of the game. I bet their community would dig the hell out of it.'
Of course, he called them family. But that's all it was. A word. They were strangers wearing the mask of kinship.
He followed the maid down the hall until they reached a set of double doors.
The Breakfast Hall—if you could even call it that—was a massive room with long tables, high ceilings, and huge windows overlooking the gardens outside. Fresh bread, fruits, cheeses, and meats were already laid out like a mini feast.
At the head of the table sat his "father," already sipping black coffee. His "mother" sat to his right, her hands folded neatly in her lap. His "older brother" lounged casually, one boot propped up on the chair's lower rung, while his "sister" sat with perfect posture, glancing at her reflection in a polished spoon.
Asher looked at them one by one—and just like that, flashes of memories he didn't really want settled into his brain. Lessons, scoldings, family dinners, cold shoulders.
No pain came with the memories.
They were always there, he just didn't know how to recall them.
Acting completely beside himself, Asher gave them a polite nod.
"Good morning, Father. Mother. Brother. Sister."
All of them blinked in surprise.
Usually, he mumbled something like "mornin'" and kept his head down. Not today.
Without waiting for permission, he walked over and plopped down into his seat, grabbing a plate and piling it up with food.
His brother let out an annoyed scoff but said nothing more, knowing that his message was received.
Caring not for that, the "father," Rowan Valescar, clasped his hand and ordered:
"Let's begin."
Everyone dug in after that...
Everyone except a certain mother.
Evelyn glanced over at him, frowning slightly.
"Is something wrong today? You're quieter than usual."
He took a bite of bread, chewed, swallowed, then casually asked:
"You know anything about nine Gods with really colorful eyes?"
She blinked like he'd just asked if carrots could sing.
Across the table, his sister—Selene—stiffened, shooting him a warning look.
Underneath the table, she elbowed him—hard—but he barely felt it.
Eventually, Evelyn shook her head.
"No... if you focused on your lessons, you'd know that God is dead."
Asher nodded.
"Yeah, I knew. 'His' corpse is what all them demons crawled out of. Can't really play a game for ten thousand hours and not know that part of the lore."
"..."
"..."
"..."
"..."
Dead silence.
Everyone stared at him like he'd grown a second head.
They all wanted to say something, but his sister was the first to snap:
"Ten thousand hours?! Game?! Lore?! What the fuck are you on about?!"
Before Asher could answer, his mother snapped too:
"Language, young lady!"
Though for an entirely different reason.
After her "stern" reprimand, she turned back to Asher, pinching the bridge of her nose.
"And you—can you stop being weird for one day? I get that you're... lacking... but can you at least try to be more like your older brother?"
Asher glanced left, where his "brother" sat, Damian, puffing out his chest like he was God's gift to humanity, or perhaps a rooster ready to fight.
"Hm."
He tilted his head.
"I'd rather die than be that."
"Huh?!"
His brother shot up, slamming his fists into the table hard enough to rattle the dishes.
"Say that shit again, you waste of Aether!"
Asher didn't even blink.
He just turned to his father, expecting the classic: "Enough."
And sure enough—
"ENOUGH!"
Rowan barked, voice booming through the hall.
It was quite a bit more dramatic than he had expected, but that was "fun" in its own way.
Asher watched as his father's gaze pinned his brother back into his seat.
Such a sight made him feel a lot more satisfied than he expected.
Though that didn't last long as he soon met his purple eyes himself.
"Boy... I've decided. You're a lost cause."
"Honey—"
His mother started.
"No."
He snapped, joining the trend.
"Are you guys crabs pretending to be hu—"
"He needs to learn consequences."
Asher tried to joke, and his father cut him off.
The mother went quiet as well, wringing her hands.
"Today, I'll invite Baron Daire of Hollowthorn to the manor. I'll wed you to his bastard daughter to strengthen our alliance. It won't be by much, but it's better than nothing. After you meet your fiancée, you'll be sent to one of their far estates. Starting tomorrow. Once you finish eating, start packing. The maids won't help you."
"...Hm."
Asher nodded once. Then twice. Then a third time, just because he could.
After that, he finished his food slowly, savoring each bite while staring into his mother's worried eyes.
He looked like he was enjoying this. And he certainly was.
These people weren't family. Not really.
His mother only pitied him and tried to cover it up with fake kindness.
His father saw him as a liability—a tool to be bartered away.
His brother needed someone to kick down to feel important.
And his sister... she wanted to help, maybe. But not if it meant ruining her pretty little perfect image.
It was a farce. A bad one.
Swallowing his last bite of sausage, he looked at his father calmly.
"When are they due to arrive?"
The father took a moment, as if surprised by the calmness.
"By the afternoon."
Asher stood up, wiped his mouth with a napkin, and left the hall without another word.
He didn't even bother looking back.