The sound of a key turning in the lock echoed in the quiet hallway.

  A man stumbled through the door, swaying unsteadily. He didn’t even bother washing up; he just collapsed onto his bed and surrendered to sleep. Perhaps it was the alcohol, but as he drifted into a haze, fragmented memories began to flicker through his mind like a corrupted video file—blurry, pixelated, and utterly nonsensical.

  Gradually, the "pixels" cleared. His vision began to rise, higher and higher, until it felt as if he had become a detached observer, watching his own life unfold from a God-eye perspective.

  From the first cry of a newborn to the growing pains of adolescence, every detail he had long forgotten resurfaced with startling clarity. A chill of fear crept over his consciousness. He had heard that your life only flashes before your eyes when you’re about to die.

  “Wait, no way... I only had a few beers at the company party. I can’t be dying, right? Was it fake alcohol? No... impossible!”

  The thought flashed briefly before the imagery froze at the exact moment he had walked through his door and collapsed onto the bed. His vision continued to ascend, drifting further away as darkness bled in from the edges. The scene of his room shrank into a tiny speck of light, eventually swallowed by the infinite void.

  His consciousness felt liberated, stripped of some invisible tether. He accelerated upward, soaring through a timeless, pitch-black world. Just as he felt himself about to fade into nothingness, a series of milky-white halos shimmered above him.

  His spirit jolted. Was he waking up?

  He tried to look up at the source of the light, but he couldn't move his eyes or turn his head. He could only tell he was getting closer by the way the darkness retreated, replaced by a returning radiance.

  With a soft “pop,” he plunged into an ocean of light. The milky glow washed over him like the warm, gentle sun of a winter afternoon. But instead of waking up, his consciousness began to dissolve, finally sinking into the silent depths of that luminous sea.

  When he opened his eyes again, he was met with a crowd of blonde-haired, blue-eyed strangers. He was dazed.

  What’s going on? Am I still dreaming? The people around him were staring, chattering in a language he couldn’t understand. Suddenly, a sharp pain blossomed on his backside. He let out a loud, involuntary wail.

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  He was even more confused now. As he felt hands fumbling with his tiny body, the realization finally hit him like a lightning bolt: He had transmigrated.

  Are you kidding me?! I only drank a few beers! How did I end up in another world? Was it really fake alcohol? Since when does a little bootleg beer kill a man?

  As a youth of the 21st century, he wasn't particularly bothered by the concept of transmigration—he’d read enough web novels to know the drill. What bothered him was the method.

  Death by fake beer? That’s just embarrassing. It’s low-tier. He was a disgrace to the noble profession of transmigrators everywhere.

  Suddenly, his pupils dilated. His crying stopped abruptly. A terrifying thought struck him, and his heart (his tiny, newborn heart) skipped a beat.

  He remembered. He had left so suddenly... HE! HADN'T! DELETED! HIS! BROWSER! HISTORY!

  It was over. His reputation, his dignity, his pure image—all gone.

  The silence lasted only a second before a new wail erupted, louder and more pathetic than the one before.

  It took a long time for him to recover from the sheer soul-crushing shame. He began to observe his surroundings. Everyone was dressed in styles reminiscent of the 18th or 19th century. Did I land in the past? he wondered.

  Then he saw several men dressed as priests, looking solemn and chanting under their breaths. His excitement flared up. Wait, is this a world of magic and the occult?

  [Unfortunately, as many years would go by, he wouldn't find a single trace of the supernatural.]

  The world seemed as ordinary as could be, which left him feeling quite deflated. Without magic or mystery, this place was just... backward. The most advanced invention was the steam engine. Entertainment was limited to opera, dancing, and horse racing. He missed his smartphone, his PC, and WiFi with a burning passion.

  He also began to understand why his new father was so obsessed with "expanding the family." He already had twelve siblings, and word was that two mistresses were currently pregnant. That made fourteen.

  The only saving grace was his family’s status. He was "filthy rich" in every sense of the word. His father was a Duke of the Holy Crissian Empire, complete with his own duchy. He was born into the 1%. The soul-crushing "996" or "997" corporate grind? Dead and buried.

  He didn't even have to worry about his siblings stealing his inheritance. According to the laws of this land, they were illegitimate—they had no claim to the title. He was the only legitimate son of the Duchess, the true heir to the Duchy. The Golden Throne was practically welded to his backside; no one could take it.

  Wait, that wasn’t entirely true. He did have an older sister from the same mother.

  But it didn't matter. A "bratty little sister" trying to compete with him? Pure fantasy.

  Taking full advantage of his "transmigrator’s bonus," he was speaking the Crissian common tongue fluently at seven months old. At three, his talent for mathematics left the duchy’s top scholars in awe. At five, he was already offering viable political advice at ducal council meetings.

  And what was his sister—no, his unworthy sister—doing back then? She was probably still in the garden, playing with mud.

  Now, his reputation as a child prodigy has spread throughout the duchy and even reached the ears of the Imperial capital. His position as the heir is rock-solid.

  This was, without a doubt, the most beautiful start a man could ask for.