As I woke up and observed the class from the ground — immature, I know — I ran a quick diagnostic. Muscle tension, mild headache, ego bruised.
Environment scan?Teacher.Students.Collapsed.
Yeah… not a great start.
I stood up slowly, brushing dust off robes I didn't remember putting on. The noise — the screams, that incoherent thunder I'd heard as I transmigrated — had vanished. Not silenced, exactly. More like... filtered out.
But their expressions filled the gaps. Wide eyes. Open mouths. A mixture of horror and curiosity.
Worried children for their beloved teacher...Or yells of happiness because their wish finally came true.
Who knows? Kids are complicated. And often cruel.
Then, like a dam cracking open, memories came flooding in — fast, hot, and unwanted. Like I was being inspired by someone else's trauma.
And yet... it was mine.
Twenty-three years old.Teaching noble and aspiring children in a minor estate-turned-academy.From a broken bloodline, a fallen house with no political bite left in it.
Handpicked by Count Stark himself to instruct the next generation of arrogant sociopaths. Why? Apparently, I was labeled a "once-in-a-generation mind" during my younger years — able to grasp complex curriculum and arcane fundamentals like I was swatting flies.
No need to brag, but back on Earth, I was a scientist. A renowned one, actually.
Two doctorates. Published in journals that would make most peer reviewers cry blood.
So yes, I deserved to inherit a body that shines at least a fraction as brightly as my real self.
And now, I'm here. In this tiny academy. Wearing secondhand robes. A war-forged mind in a young noble's frame.
Reborn as Viktor Eisenberg: tutor, anomaly, and potentially the only person in this room who understands the square root of 144.Okay, I might've been a little rude.
But in my defense, no one handed me a script.
Unfortunately, I still couldn't guess the situation I'd been dumped into. The memories weren't arriving in a nice, linear PowerPoint presentation. No — they came in fragments. Torn pages from someone else's autobiography, thrown at my head one at a time.
So far? Not helpful.
As a precaution, I decided I'd ask the students for basic information. Just enough to build a working model of what was going on — without looking suspicious. Which, frankly, I'm not good at. My poker face comes with subtitles.
I stood up firmly, like collapsing in the middle of class had been part of the lesson plan. The posture alone seemed to reassure a few of them. Or maybe confuse them further. Either worked.
And that's when I really looked at myself.
Surprisingly... Viktor was a handsome guy. Tall, lean, composed. Black and gold robe — reminiscent of Middle Eastern thobes from Earth — with a thin, ornately carved cane at his side. A matching dark hat crowned his head like he was ready to declare a theorem and start a revolution.
His — my — hair was long and black, streaked with silver, and tied back loosely. A short, jet-black beard framed my jaw. It looked intentionally scruffy, which was somehow worse than accidental scruffy.
"What a gorgeous outfit—"
Wait.
"What on Earth are these shitty clothes?" I muttered internally. "Or is my taste just... bland now?"
No time to contemplate fashion philosophy. I opened my mouth, ready to do my best impression of a calm, capable educator.
But before I could say a word, a girl seated in the front row leaned forward. Her tone was laced with concern, though her posture screamed suspicion.
She looked mature — maybe seventeen? Though something about her poise made her seem older. Another effect of this world's weird aging visuals. I would've guessed she was my age back on Earth, but no — the fragmented memories helpfully whispered her name, her background, and her birthday. Thanks, brain. Now please reassemble everything else while you're at it.
"Sir Viktor… are you okay?" she asked, eyes wide. "You suddenly collapsed in pain, and now you're just… okay?"
Ah. The question.
The first test.
My turn to lie.
"Oh, thank you for your concern, Elizabeth Rosemarow," I said, forcing a calm, educated smile. "I was merely… exhausted from last night's work. Stress, you know."
What the hell was that?
I'm so bad at lying.
"Last night's work"? What does that even mean? What if that directly contradicts something I actually did?
Of course, the universe heard me.
"But sir," Elizabeth blinked, tilting her head in that curious, dagger-under-silk way only noble daughters could master, "you were at our house last night. As an honored guest. My father, Viscount Roberto, invited you personally for dinner."
...And there it is. The immediate contradiction. Beautifully delivered. I just jinxed myself harder than a cursed gambler at a witch's poker table.
Now what? Do I just throw it all out there?
"Actually, I'm from Earth — a planet in another dimension — and I only just transmigrated into this body like a confused soul shoved into a rental suit. Please treat me kindly, Your Honor."
Yeah. That'll go over well.
Or… let's just continue with the lies. It's the only thing on the menu, I guess.
"Actually, Elizabeth," I began, tilting my chin up like a man with a plan and not, say, an interdimensional imposter barely holding himself together, "just before sunrise, I was working on spells I'd planned to present to the class today. But through exhaustion and sheer tiredness I collapsed like a crippled bastard."
...A little vulgar, perhaps. But it rolled off the tongue with enough conviction. Was this how Viktor used to talk? God, I hope so. Please don't report me to the manners police; I just came from a world where everyone's a critic and half of them own blogs.
A few soft laughs rippled through the room — Elizabeth giggled, even. The sound was disarming, like watching a devil pity you before it eats your soul.
Then came the dagger.
"Sir Viktor," she said sweetly, like she hadn't just gut-punched my existential dread with her smile, "when will you teach us basic spells? This is our final year at the academy, after all."
Oh good. Final year. Excellent. Nothing says get your magical act together like being tossed into a class on the cusp of graduation when you don't even know how to conjure a spark without setting yourself on fire.
I gave her a polite nod, the kind that screams, I'm definitely improvising every second of this interaction and hoping no one notices.
"When?" I echoed, buying time like a bankrupt merchant at a dragon's auction. "Soon. Very soon. In fact—"
Oh god, am I supposed to give them homework?
Or worse… a demonstration?
A student to Elizabeth's right stood up with the sort of practiced precision that screamed aristocratic fencing lessons at age five. Fairly tall, taller than her by a few inches. Muscular—not bulky, but sculpted in that I-lift-swords-for-fun way. His uniform gleamed in white and gold, pristine to the thread. Funny I hadn't noticed it earlier, but now that the fog in my brain had cleared a little, I realized they were all wearing uniforms. Some fancier than others. Custom embroidery. Family crests. Legacy sewed into silk.
And this kid? He had legacy pouring out of his mouth before he even opened it.
Long hair, like mine but red and better combed, fell past his shoulders. He straightened with pompous grace, eyes sharp with inherited entitlement. Arrogance radiated off him in waves. Wonderful. A noble tantrum was about to bloom, and I'd been given front-row seats.
"Sir," he began, voice firm and just respectful enough to sound rehearsed. "The day is almost over, and you've yet to teach us a single spell. You did promise one last month—unless that too was forgotten? We know there have been… complications lately, but exams and graduation are approaching. Time is valuable."
He smiled thinly.
"Not all of us are here to enjoy ourselves, after all."
Oh, wow. What a charming little scrunt.
It's not like I couldn't give you a spell. I mean it. Ask your oh-so-bright, totally-alive-and-well head teacher. Right. Rest in pieces, old Viktor.
I blinked slowly, weighing my options. Publicly implode? Set the desk on fire? Pretend to have amnesia? Wait, would that actually work?
Or maybe… just maybe…
Bluff like my life depended on it. Because let's be real — it probably did.
"Thank you very much for your concern, Zeke Hamilton," I said with a measured nod.
The name slipped from my tongue like I'd known it all along. Convenient. These fragmented memories were doing overtime now, arriving at just the right moment like actors late to a play. Would've been lovely if I'd been given a full VIP pass from the start, maybe with a tour and a map. But no—guess I had to survive this transmigration with hard mode enabled.
"The spell will be presented tomorrow," I continued, steadying my voice. "In fact—two very light ones. Foundational, yet versatile. Consider it a small gift before your exams."
That seemed to appease them.
"We'll end class here for today. You may all head home."
Miracle accomplished. I, Viktor Eisenberg—the impromptu educator from Earth—had survived the first act of this mess. Without setting anything on fire. Without being lynched by overachieving noble teens. And most importantly, without revealing that their dear instructor had very recently been replaced by an interdimensional soul with a knack for bluffing.
The students began packing up, chatting with each other, laughing even. They didn't suspect a thing. Their faces held no trace of suspicion—just relief, maybe a little excitement. To them, everything was normal.
But.
There was one slight issue still lingering.
Home.
Where exactly was I supposed to go?
My eyes followed the last of the students as they left the classroom, disappearing into the winding hallways of the academy.
Home, I whispered inwardly, like a prayer. Where is it?
As the last of the children left for the day, I stayed behind for a moment.
The academy itself was nothing like the towering spires and grandiose halls I had imagined when I first arrived. It was a small, almost quaint establishment tucked away in a quiet corner of the city. A private tutor's school, really. The kind of place where you didn't get lost in a sea of students. You couldn't hide. And somehow, that was both comforting and unsettling at once.
I sighed, trying to shake the feeling, but the memory hit me again, this time with more clarity than ever before. My apartment—where I lived. It was barley a long walk from here, maybe Ten minutes on a good day. Nestled in the heart of the city, between the academy and the marketplace, it was a perfect balance of proximity and distance. Close enough to the hustle and bustle, but far enough to feel like a retreat. A ten minute walk isnt long to be fair.
The building was nothing special—two stories of gray stone, standing side by side with others just like it. The door, old and worn, was framed by peeling paint and a few too many cracks in the wood. You could hear it creak when you pushed it open, announcing your arrival with a kind of resigned squeak, as if the door had seen too many years and too many residents to care anymore.
Inside, the hallways were narrow, barely wide enough to stretch your arms out. It was cramped and functional, but there was a certain charm to it. The walls were faded, and the light from the windows seemed to struggle to push through the dusty air. The stairs creaked beneath your feet as you climbed, each step protesting its age.
I could picture it clearly now, that second-floor apartment of mine. The living room was small—too small, really—but it had everything I needed. A soft couch that had seen better days, sagging in the middle, surrounded by mismatched furniture that was probably too old for comfort but still held some odd, endearing quality. A rug in the center, frayed at the edges like it had lived through its fair share of footsteps.
I could almost feel the heavy air in the room. It wasn't oppressive, but there was something in the atmosphere—a quiet weight, like a room holding its breath.
The window, though, was where the magic happened. Or maybe "magic" was a stretch. You could see the rooftops of the city stretching out in every direction.Far in the distance, the academy peeked over the rooftops, like a small stone outpost watching the world go by. A small monument to all the children I tutored and the families who trusted me. Closer to home, the marketplace bustled with life. Vendors shouting out prices, the clink of coin on wood, the occasional whistle of the wind as it passed through the narrow streets.
It wasn't a grand view. In fact, it was rather ordinary—but in its own way, it was mine. This was my space, tucked away in the city, surrounded by the noise of life but separated enough to feel like I could be alone if I wanted to.
I smirked to myself, remembering the constant mess of papers scattered across the desk. Books I was supposed to read but never got around to. A few notes from the children I tutored, half-finished and never followed up on. Everything about the apartment was cluttered—but it was my kind of clutter. Nothing extravagant, nothing too clean. Just a lived-in space that suited me.
A small chuckle escaped me. I could almost hear the sarcastic tone in my own voice: "Perfectly me," I muttered, half amused. Average, forgettable, but oddly comforting.
It wasn't grand. It wasn't impressive.
All in all, the room suited me. It wasn't grandiose enough that I'd get lost in it — thank God — but not cramped enough to squeeze out the air and my sanity. Just the right size. Like a well-fitted glove made by someone who didn't care about fashion but still got the measurements right.
In the corner of the memory, like a glitch in a dream, there was... someone. A woman? Maybe. She sat slouched in a worn-out chair, blurred and distant like she belonged more to the shadows than the light. I couldn't make out her face or even be sure she was real. Maybe just a trick of the memory inflow — one of those ghosts that linger when your brain decides it's time for reruns.
Let's not jinx it though. I always seem to find a way to get myself tangled in something messy the moment I start asking too many questions.
Anyway, with all that said — time to head home. The memories helped. They always come in bursts, half-gifts and half-pranks. Still, it's better than stumbling through fog. Now, let's just hope we can make it back without running into any more crap on the way out.