Once the coldness of death left his body, Francis Rayleigh opened his eyes to reveal a stranger’s ceiling. On the ceiling, there was a peculiar design on it that he had never seen in his life. He could recall it, of course, but those memories were not his.

Where the hell am I, he thought. He was lying in bed, he knew that much. But it wasn’t the sterile white hospital bed that he was expecting. Instead, the soft mattress was somewhat foreign to him, and the pillow fluffier than he knew.

The ornate light red fabric that draped across the bed acted as a sort of curtain. On the more opaque side of fabrics, it blocked out much of the sunlight. He raised his arm, and that was not his.

A face peeked through a small crack in the curtains. That face, and all the wrinkles that she had, was familiar, and yet unknown to him. Her eyes widened up, and she opened the curtains fully.

“You’re awake, young master,” she shouted.

Her name floated to the top of his head. As if he had known her for more years than he should have, he could recall her name with ease. But, if those weren’t his memories, whose memories was he looking into?

“Ms Anne,” he replied.

“Oh, no need to be so polite, young master.”

What did she mean by that, he thought. Where was he, and why was he there. Those were just some questions that he wanted to ask.

“Ah, um. I’m quite thirsty…” he said.

“Oh, of course. I’ll get some water.”

She left with a bow and closed the door behind her. In actuality, he wasn’t all that thirsty after dying. All he wanted was some quiet time to recollect everything. But, when the door opened again, he knew he wasn’t going to have the time. In the first place, he could make several conclusions as his memories started to return.

Francis Rayleigh. That was his name. Not his first name, but just one that he assumed. And that body he was residing in belonged to that man.

“Fran!” his father shouted as he entered the room.

A tall man, with raven black hair. That was his father. He wore a posh outfit, as one with the title of duke would. By his side, with a similar, albeit more greying shade of hair, was his wife. In other words, Francis Rayleigh’s mother. Her eyes were of a dark brown, close to black. But his father, with those strange eyes, stood out. Crimson red. Not bloodshot, where the vessels within the eyeball crept up on the iris. No, his irises themselves were red. As if wearing coloured contact lenses, it looked unreal or unnatural.

“I need you’d wake up soon! That’s the blood of a Rayleigh at work,” his father said.

“But he's not a full Rayleigh…” his mother’s words trailed off.

She was right. From the previous Francis’ memories, the imposter was able to draw on his knowledge. The Rayleigh blood had a strange, and somewhat unnatural quirk. Even if a full blooded Rayleigh mated with someone outside the family, the signature features would get passed down no matter what. Their crimson red eyes, amazing body capabilities, and proficiency with aura. That was the Rayleigh bloodline. But, even before the imposter, Francis was weirder than his blood. If that cursed family defied nature, Francis defied it. Indeed, his mother was one of normalcy.

“I’m alright now,” he said, sitting up from his bed.

His mother clasped his hands, and the wrinkles of a lady around 40 rubbed against his. While he waited for her to let go, he tried to recall what happened. The maid returned, with a pitcher of clear water that looked to be fetched from a luxurious spring. With careful hands, she poured out a glass, and handed it towards her young master. The new Francis had not fully grasped the situation, but he still took it nonetheless. His eyebrows were raised with only one sip. Perhaps it was an after effect or side effect from dying, but the water tasted sweet and smooth. It went down his throat with no problems to speak of. In fact, the water was more appealing than he initially thought.

He swung his legs out and onto the side of the bed. The curtains that draped over were hooked to two of the four posts at each corner of the bed. Pushing the soft and thick blanket aside, he made eye contact with his own legs. Smooth skin that belonged more to a maiden princess than his own greeted him. He stepped down onto the floor. Once his full weight was concentrated on both his legs, he tried walking.

The process continued for a full two days. For most of that time, he walked around the vast area that their mansion took up. Wearing casual wear, it was easy to move about in. From his room, he explored around. He couldn’t seem to recall the entire mansion, so it seemed like muscle memory wasn’t transferred over.

As he walked around, his head tilted down, he was deep in thought. After all, he did just meet his death several days ago. Of course, many people died each day. But, just on that particular day, he died. And imagine his shock when he woke up. It wasn’t even his own world that he woke up in, or his own time. But the memories were proof that something had happened. First, was that the original Francis Rayleigh perished. The imposter knew that much. Second, was that he had inherited the former’s memories and body. Essentially, he took over a dead body, and stole his memories.

“Fran? Fran,” a voice called out, but in his exploration he didn’t listen.

His attention was on the path in front of him, and of the life behind him. Viewing the memories was like watching a movie with no narrator or monologue. Just what his senses perceived. Anything that he thought in a particular instance, what his feelings were towards certain things, all gone. Even what foods he liked was gone. Of course, he was able to infer the owner’s preference based on what he ate and left on the plate at social gatherings. But, perhaps most importantly, he knew why all the servants avoided his gaze.

“Fran!”

A large hand landed on his shoulder. He was jolted awake, and spun around. His father watched and analysed his face with concerned eyes. Even then, two days later, those crimson red eyes were unnatural. No one else that he saw had eyes like that. Only his father possessed that shade. He was handsome, no doubt about that. Girls would swoon over him if he were not a Rayleigh.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” his father asked.

“Yes, I am.”

“But you didn’t even call me after you woke up. And you’ve been so quiet, and calm, and gentl… I mean, tired. Should I call for another examination?”

So he’s concerned because I’m quiet. But do I even have the right for them to be concerned? I’m not even their real son.

“I’m alright. Just thinking. But… Thank you, dad,” he said with a smile.

“It's like you’re a different person ever since you woke up.”

His father placed both of his hands on Francis’ shoulder. The large warm hands pressed down on him. Like a schoolboy carrying a heavy bag, the pressure applied was tiring. That was a trait of a mixed blood. A frail body, and weaker than normal strength. As if it was the debt caused by the cursed family.

“A different person? What are you talking about? I’m your son, right? Francis Rayleigh, the sole mixed child of the current Rayleigh family,” he replied, as if saying a rehearsed line.

“Hm. If you ever need to talk to me about anything, you can, okay? If that Benjamin is bothering you again, tell me.”

Francis nodded his head. His father lifted his hands with a sigh, and walked away. It seemed like even if something was going on, he would not pursue it. Once again, Francis resumed his exploration. The library, with close to a million books, spanned over a large area and two floors. The kitchen, with chefs that avoided his gaze.

Every single servant, male or female, young or old, all avoided his gaze. They all greeted him, but when he greeted them back, they were all taken aback. Was it that strange, Francis thought. Or is a son of a duke not supposed to do that?

When the sun rose for the third time he came into the world, he still did not get used to seeing the design of the canopy. Three people, dressed in robes, each holding a lantern against a black background. If it wasn’t part of his bed, it might have been an art piece he would have seen somewhere in a museum in France. When the maid, Anne, came to wake him, she was surprised that he was already up.

“Shall I fetch you your breakfast, young master? Or would you prefer to dine with your family?” Anne asked.

“I’ll eat with them,” said Francis.

“Very well. Oh right, young master, the duke and duchess seemed to want to talk to you about something.”

“Okay. I’ll get going then. Did they tell you anything?”

“No, young master. They want to have a private talk.”

“I see.”

Francis stood up and walked towards the door. Still in his casual pajamas, he left the room without changing. As he made his way through the maze of hallways that he forced himself to memorise, the states of the various servants seemed to change. They were no longer looking down whenever he was nearby. And from that, he knew several reasons why. One was something that he could not change. That was the effect of those who had the red eyes. Though, his pair of eyes weren’t quite as red as his father’s, and had a more pinkish hue to it. The other, was entirely his own fault. Just from the few moments in Francis’ memories, he made a definite conclusion. He would even have gone so far as to say that the previous owner deserved his death.

Once the great big doors swung open, he realised that he had never truly grasped the scale of the dining room. What great swathes of land his new family owned. Servants walked towards him, and guided him towards his seat. Though their attitude and opinion towards him began to shift, that wasn’t true for everyone. The servant’s eyes were focused on the floor, and his steps mechanical, as if nights were spent on practice for that action alone.

“Fran. You’ve decided to eat with us,” his mother said.

Marianne, with her greying hair. She was shorter than his father, though not by much. Her voice, ever so gentle and kind. She was the type of mother who would listen to her child’s story before deciding a punishment.

His father meanwhile, looked somewhat worried. Charles, the man with raven black hair. His facial structure would be considered handsome by most standards, with a well formed chin, sharp gaze. The broad shoulders he wielded matched his height in distinctiveness. But he had different tones. Some of which Francis experienced first hand, and others viewed through memories. The concerned look and voice. That was exclusive to his family. To others, dukes and commoners alike, he avoided talking to them, and they did the same to him. Treat others like how you want to be treated, I suppose, commented Francis as he looked through the memories.

“Take a seat, Fran,” his father started out.

“I will.”

Of course I will. I need to eat. Or is this another formality?

Servants rushed to serve the new arrival. Plates upon plates upon plates were laid before him. It was far too much than he could eat. It made sense, of course. If the maid had brought his breakfast up, there was only so much that she could fit onto his table. As large as his study table might have been, putting all the plates of food would mean that some of them would be dropped onto the floor.

A fried egg on one plate. Another with sausages. Even a soup was served, as with a cup of tea. Back on earth, the imposter was a coffee person, but he couldn’t decline it. A set of carefully arranged cutlery was placed beside him, all laid out on a delicate cloth.

The natural light from the sun flooded in through the large windows by the sides. Picking up his fork and knife, he tried to mirror his parents. A son of a duke had to have table manners. They sat opposite each other, the two spouses facing one another. But the servant had led Francis to a seat on his father’s side, skipping a seat.

He sliced and ate. Once he was full, there was still a quarter of his served food left untouched. It was far too much. When he counted the plates in front of his mother, she had several less than him, and she managed to finish it all. But, on his left, the number of plates were the exact same.

Is increased appetite a trait of the Rayleigh blood?

Nonetheless, he couldn’t eat another bite. And, he would much rather let the servants either finish his food or feed it to animals than risk overeating and making a mess of himself. He raised his hand slightly, and the same servant rushed over. His legs trembled as he stood in front of the young master.

“Sorry, but could you please take all these back? It seems that my appetite has gotten smaller,” Francis asked in the kindest voice he could manage.

Even his parents raised their eyebrows in suspicion. The servant’s legs no longer had a shiver. With calm, and still hands, he began to clear the table.

“Well then, I suppose I shall be heading back to my room,” Francis said after wiping his lips of any crumbs.

“Stay seated,” Charles said.

Francis had expected this with the prior notice from Anne. But that only helped him calm down. The notice didn’t help him figure anything out about what the topic was.

Did they find me out? I guess I’ll be executed if that happens.

A tense atmosphere had fallen onto the table. The remaining servants filed out of the room when his father cleared his throat. The only ones left were Marianne, Charles, and Francis. Two parents, and a mixed blooded son.

“Fran, I don’t want you to go to the palace,” his father said simply.

Francis was taken aback and momentarily stunned. The topic wasn’t something that he had expected. The palace, he thought, that’s where the emperor’s family is at. Unless it's that… The crown princess’ Arcleus.

“Dear, you’ve been shortlisted. You’re going to the palace to compete with two others for the next in line. It's a royal order, so we can’t decline it,” Marianne said.

“So I got chosen as an Arcleus?” asked Francis.

“Yes. You’re one of the three within the empire. But I don’t want to send you to the palace.”

He remembered then. What had happened after his death. The dragon’s visit, and the deal he made.