Leon Hart had just finished another long, thankless shift at the corner convenience store. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead as he locked up, the dull hum echoing in his ears. The Tokyo streets were quiet, washed in cold hues of streetlight gold and shadow. A light drizzle turned the pavement slick, and the scent of rain mixed with exhaust and vending machine coffee.
His phone vibrated weakly in his jacket pocket—yet another spam notification. He didn't bother checking it.
He had no one waiting at home.
No real dreams left to chase.
Just one tired step after another.
As he turned the corner toward the train station, something strange happened.
The air grew thick. Not in a metaphorical way, but genuinely dense—like wading through syrup. A deep vibration began at the base of his spine, building in intensity. His vision blurred. The ground beneath him shimmered like heat rising off asphalt, except it was freezing cold.
Then it shattered.
The sidewalk cracked open—not with rubble, but with light. Blinding, golden-white light that sliced reality open like torn paper. Leon didn't have time to scream. A great invisible force wrapped around him, yanking him forward. It wasn't painful—it was weightless, like being sucked into a dream and slammed out of it all at once.
The light swallowed him whole.
---
Voices. Distant at first.
"…he's still breathing—"
"By the gods, he hit his head again—get a healer!"
"Father, the wound—he's bleeding!"
A hand gripped his shoulder, firm and trembling.
Leon groaned, trying to move, but every muscle screamed. His eyes fluttered open. The ceiling above him wasn't plaster or concrete—it was carved stone, with timber beams warped with age. A heavy, musky scent filled the air: herbs, smoke, and something metallic.
He turned his head. Slowly. Painfully.
He was lying on a large, fur-lined bed in a dim chamber. Thick curtains swayed gently at the windows, letting in weak afternoon sunlight. Three figures hovered around him.
One was a tall man with streaks of gray in his beard and an anxious crease between his brows. Another was a boy—no older than sixteen—whose green eyes mirrored his own. And then there was a girl, no more than twelve, clutching a cloth soaked red.
"Leon?" the man said, voice tight with worry. "Leon, can you hear me?"
Leon blinked. "I—who…?"
The man exhaled as if he'd been holding his breath for hours. "Thank the stars. He's conscious."
The girl started crying, tears streaking her freckled cheeks. "Don't scare us like that again, brother!"
Leon stared at her. *Brother?*
Before he could ask anything, a cold chime echoed in his ears.
> [SYSTEM INITIALIZING…]
> [HOST SYNCHRONIZATION: COMPLETE.]
> [WARNING: TEMPORARY MEMORY FRAGMENTATION DETECTED.]
> [WELCOME, LEON HART OF HOUSE HARTFELL.]
His eyes widened. Floating text—blue, translucent—appeared in front of him, hanging in the air. Like a video game interface. But crisp, solid, as if etched into reality itself.
> [PRIMARY OBJECTIVE: RESTORE HOUSE HARTFELL.]
> [STATUS: NOBLE TITLE AT RISK — FORFEITURE IN 364 DAYS.]
> [ACTIVATING SUPPORT SYSTEM…]
"Wh-What is this…?" Leon whispered.
"Calm down, son," the man said. "You hit your head when your horse threw you. You've been unconscious for nearly two days. We feared—well, never mind that now."
Leon stared at the man. He looked noble, but worn down—his once-rich tunic had been patched and re-stitched too many times. His shoulders bore the weight of a crumbling legacy.
Then the truth sank in like cold water.
He wasn't in Tokyo anymore.
He wasn't even in his own body.
His hands—larger, scarred—trembled as he looked down at them. His voice, when he spoke again, was deeper. The reflection in the silver pitcher on the table beside him showed a face both familiar and foreign: sharper features, a small scar over one brow, and older eyes than his own.
His mind was intact—his memories of Tokyo, his old life—but he was in someone else's place. Or rather… he *was* this world's Leon now.
And somehow, he had a system. Like something out of a novel.
> [SYSTEM ABILITIES UNLOCKED: BUSINESS CONSTRUCTION, TRADE NEGOTIATION, MARKET INSIGHT.]
> [QUEST AVAILABLE: ASSESS THE ESTATE.]
"System…" he murmured.
The boy—his supposed younger brother—raised an eyebrow. "Is his mind still jumbled?"
"He just needs rest," the older man said. "The fall was bad, but he's strong. He'll recover."
Leon looked at them again, this time really seeing them.
The man was Lord Thorne Hartfell—his supposed father, judging by how naturally he slipped into concern and authority. The boy must be Daren, his younger brother. And the girl—bless her tear-streaked cheeks—could only be Elly, his little sister.
He'd landed in the middle of a noble family. A *ruined* noble family, if the system was telling the truth.
He tried to sit up again. His father reached out to steady him.
"You shouldn't move yet. The bailiff's men are downstairs. They demand payment."
Leon blinked. "Payment?"
His father grimaced. "Taxes, debts, levies. The king has little patience for families that no longer pull their weight. We're already months late. If we don't pay by next moon's end, they'll strip us of title and land. We'll be nothing."
Leon's system chimed again.
> [URGENT QUEST RECEIVED: AVERT FORFEITURE.]
> [OBJECTIVE: RAISE 1,000 GOLD IN 30 DAYS.]
He took a slow, deep breath. It was absurd. He didn't know magic. He didn't know this world's politics. But one thing he *did* know… was business.
Back in Tokyo, he had started a small online drop-shipping business. Nothing impressive, but enough to pay for his own food and tuition for a year. He understood margins, supply chains, customer pain points. What he lacked in fantasy strength, he could make up for with strategy.
And now, he had a system to help.
"Let them in," Leon said.
His father blinked. "What?"
"I want to speak to the bailiff's men myself."
"Leon, you're in no condition—"
He met his father's eyes, his gaze steadier than it had any right to be. "If this House is to rise again, it starts with me. Let them in."
His father hesitated, then gave a nod to the boy. "Daren, go."
Once the younger boy vanished from the room, Thorne Hartfell leaned in. "You don't sound like yourself."
"I suppose knocking your head against a tree will do that."
Thorne studied him for a long moment, then cracked a dry, weary smile. "If it gives you this fire, maybe I should've dropped you sooner."
Leon let out a short, dry laugh. Inwardly, he was already thinking.
*What do we have? Land, likely underused. People, likely demoralized. Assets? Maybe some relics, or old trade routes…*
> [NEW FEATURE UNLOCKED: ESTATE OVERVIEW]
> [Would you like to open it now?]
*Yes,* he thought.
A map unfurled in his mind—an aerial view of Hartfell estate. Fields, forests, a rundown village, three production buildings marked in red: a brewery, a lumber mill, and an herb garden. All marked "non-functional."
It was bad.
But not hopeless.
He was going to need capital. Product. Distribution. And above all—*innovation*. He would need to introduce something this world hadn't seen before.
His thoughts were interrupted by the heavy creak of the door. Three men in black tabards entered, all wearing the lion sigil of the king's administration. Their leader, a stern man with graying hair, bowed slightly.
"My Lord Hartfell. We feared the rumors of your death were true."
Leon met his gaze. "Not yet. Though you seem disappointed."
The man smirked. "Only prepared. The treasury grows impatient. You owe 1,400 gold crowns. If unpaid by the next full moon, your lands will be seized by royal decree."
Leon sat straighter. "Tell the treasury they will be paid. In full."
The bailiff arched a brow. "By what miracle?"
Leon smiled. Not kindly. Not arrogantly. But with the quiet promise of a storm. "Not a miracle. Just good business.