Lloyd Ferrum, temporarily displaced soul and current occupant of a body that felt suspiciously like it still owed library fines from its previous run, ambled through the grand, sunlit corridors of the Ferrum Estate. He sighed. Again. He was pretty sure his sigh-count was approaching double digits before breakfast, which had to be some kind of record, even for someone juggling memories from two separate lifetimes.
At least I can walk without my knees sounding like bubble wrap, he conceded internally, flexing his fingers. Being nineteen again had its perks. No mysterious aches that appeared after sleeping funny, no need for reading glasses perched precariously on his nose, no existential dread triggered by daytime television commercials selling walk-in bathtubs. Just the regular, run-of-the-mill existential dread of waking up six years in the past in a world with magic, political marriages, and a distinct lack of decent pizza delivery.
He passed another ancestral portrait. This one featured a grim-faced Ferrum ancestor with an improbably large moustache and armor that looked as if it weighed more than Lloyd currently did. The painted eyes seemed to follow him, silently judging his posture or perhaps his choice of sleepwear (which, thankfully, he'd swapped for presentable day clothes before venturing out).
Alright, Great-Uncle Theron the Belligerent, Lloyd thought, giving the portrait a mock salute. Don't worry, I'll try not to pawn the family silver. Unless the System gives me a really good exchange rate.
The thought of the System, his 'Shopping Tree', brought a flicker of excitement that quickly warred with the sheer weirdness of it all. A cosmic shop interface only he could see, offering superpowers in exchange for... well, he wasn't sure yet. Tasks? Shiny rocks? Fulfilling his father's expectations? The possibilities were disturbingly vague.
He reached the imposing double doors of the main family dining room. Carved with intricate scenes of heroic Ferrums doing heroic things (mostly involving pointy objects and mythical beasts), they felt heavier than they looked. He pushed them open.
Sunlight streamed through arched windows, illuminating a scene of quiet domesticity – albeit a very wealthy, aristocratic version of it. The long mahogany table, polished to a mirror shine, could comfortably seat thirty, but currently hosted only two.
At the far end, his father, Arch Duke Roy Ferrum, sat ramrod straight, engrossed in a stack of official-looking documents bound in leather. His dark hair showed no hint of grey (unlike the distinguished silver Lloyd remembered him having later in the first timeline), and his jaw was set in a permanently determined line. He radiated 'Do Not Disturb Unless the Castle is Actively on Fire' energy.
Across from him, nursing a delicate porcelain cup, was his mother, Milody Austin. Duchess Ferrum. She was the picture of refined grace, her silver-blonde hair swept up elegantly, her morning gown immaculate. She looked serene, but Lloyd knew from past experience that her calm exterior hid a will as strong as her husband's, just wielded with more subtlety and significantly less yelling.
"Lloyd, dear," Milody's voice was calm, carrying easily across the vast space. She offered him a small, practiced smile as he entered. "You decided to join the living. Come, sit. Cook made those honey-glazed sausages you profess to enjoy."
Profess to enjoy? Lloyd mentally raised an eyebrow. Okay, maybe nineteen-year-old me was a bit dramatic about sausages. "Morning, Mother. Father," he said, sliding into his customary seat – strategically placed far enough from his father to avoid accidental document-spillage, but close enough to reach the salt.
A servant materialized silently, placing a steaming plate before him. Eggs, fluffy and yellow. Sausages, glistening under their glaze. Thick slices of warm bread, accompanied by butter sculpted into the shape of a Ferrum family crest – a roaring lion that looked vaguely constipated. Aristocracy, Lloyd thought, it's all about the details.
He picked up his fork, the familiar weight grounding him slightly. Food. Glorious, non-rehydrated food. He took a bite of sausage. Sweet, savory, definitely better than the protein bars he practically lived on during crunch time back on Earth.
The peaceful chewing lasted approximately fifteen seconds.
"Your business tutelage," Roy Ferrum stated, the words dropping into the quiet room like stones. He still hadn't looked up from his papers. His focus remained absolute, multitasking disapproval and ducal duties with practiced ease. "Report."
Lloyd froze mid-chew, the delicious sausage suddenly feeling like sawdust in his mouth. Aaaand here we go. Business studies. The consolation prize for the genetically underwhelming heir. In his first life, he'd resented it, slacked off, scraped by with mediocre grades, much to his father's barely concealed disappointment.
"Progress?" Roy prompted, his pen scratching across a document. The sound grated on Lloyd's nerves.
Right. Business. What did nineteen-year-old him even know? Supply curves? Profit margins? How to look busy while secretly reading forbidden novels under the desk? His Earth life knowledge, however, was a different story. Decades spent navigating corporate structures, understanding market fluctuations (even if they were for things like holographic projectors and self-lacing shoes, not enchanted textiles and griffin eggs), and dealing with personalities far more challenging than a stuffy Riverian economics tutor.