CHAPTER 51: MEMENTO

When I closed the door to my room, a profound silence descended. The thick curtains blocked out the moonlight, leaving only the flickering flame of the candle on my desk to cast a dim glow. Shadows danced on the walls as if they were watching me.

I sat down at the table. My hands instinctively reached into my pocket. As I pulled out the parchment, even the texture of the paper sent shivers down my spine. Another person’s life, another’s pain and joy... now lay right there on the table before me.

I stared at it blankly for a while. I couldn’t muster the courage to unfold it. The same question swirled relentlessly in my mind:

_Will I still be me after absorbing these memories?_

The candle flame suddenly flickered, as if someone had blown past it in the room. A chill ran down my spine. Maybe it was just my nerves. Or perhaps the parchment itself... calling to me.

"Stop being ridiculous," I whispered to myself. "This is just magic... just a tool."

But it didn’t sound convincing.

My trembling fingers probed the seal. Instantly, icy energy surged through my veins. I gritted my teeth and pressed the parchment flat against the table. If I backed out now, everything I’d endured up to this point would be meaningless.

I took a deep breath.

And unfolded the parchment.

At first, nothing happened. Just silence. Then, the letters on the surface began to stir. The black ink moved as if alive, lines twisting into a complex symbol. I couldn’t tear my eyes away. In that moment, the symbol flared... and a sharp pain stabbed into my mind.

I tried to scream, but my voice caught in my throat. I gripped the edge of the table, but my hands slipped in their tremor. The world spun inside my head.

Then... visions.

A child’s cry.

A sword covered in blood.

Laughter echoing behind high walls.

An oath blurred by tears.

Countless battlefields turned into lakes of blood.

And a beautiful woman with innocent blonde hair.

Followed by a vow sworn to an emperor.

They all flooded into my mind at once. My heart pounded wildly. Each image scorched my brain, every sensation tore at my soul.

One moment, I found myself looking through the eyes of that crying child. His hands were tiny, palms trembling. When he tried to wipe away the tears dripping onto them, the wetness between his fingers... it felt real. As if they were streaming down my own cheeks.

In the next instant, the sword was in my hand. Bloody, heavy, cold. The face reflected on the blade wasn’t mine, or rather, not the young Noah I remembered, but I could still feel that weight in my wrists. The scent of steel, the metallic taste of blood, the slippery mud under my feet... everything was terrifyingly vivid.

That was the parchment’s difference. I wasn’t just watching like a movie. I was living it, as if in a dream. Yet at the same time, I observed from outside. Two realities crashed down on me simultaneously.

Another scene... the blonde-haired woman. Light playing on her face, her lips moving, the sorrow in her eyes... my heart clenched. I knew who she was. So this was Annabel in her first form. More... alive, or happier.

Then the image shifted. A throne room. Voices echoing under high ceilings, gold-plated columns, kneeling soldiers. And me. No, as Leonardo, on my knees, head bowed, swearing an oath to an emperor. The weight on my chest was so intense I couldn’t breathe. The vow hadn’t spilled from my lips in that moment, but it felt ripped from my heart.

And this was only the beginning.

Because the visions didn’t stop. Not a single film, but thousands... tens of thousands. Childhood laughter, battle cries, betrayals, friendships, loves, losses. All streaming into my mind. Like dreams... but as intense as an endless nightmare.

The concept of time vanished. In one minute, I watched thousands of lives. Decades passed in a single breath. My eyes were closed, yet I saw a thousand different scenes at once.

Sometimes I was at a feast, other times, in a square turned bloodbath. Sometimes I found myself bedding a prostitute, other times drowning in the cold gaze of an executioner.

Everything felt real. Just like how dreams feel real. But these dreams seemed endless. Yet, just when I thought there was no end, I finally awoke.

"FUCK!"

I felt as if I’d been asleep for years. My throat was dry, my lungs burning.

When I lifted my head, I was still in my room. The candle on the table had melted halfway down, its smoke rising in a thin line toward the ceiling. Yet everything was different. I looked around, but my eyes still saw traces of those scenes. As if battlefields lurked behind the curtains.

My heart raced. I checked my hands; they were clenched as if still gripping a sword. I tried to open them slowly, but my fingers wouldn’t release from the trembling.

These weren’t just memories.

They were Leonardo’s life. All life.

And I... had lived it.

I cradled my head in my hands. A voice echoed in my mind:

"Who am I?"

Was I still Noah?

Or had a piece of Leonardo already seeped into me?

I stayed like that for a while. My thoughts tangled, foreign anger and longing flickering like sparks inside me. His oaths, his women, his wars... they were all mine now too.

Then I realized... I was still me.

It was just like binge-watching thousands of movies. And most of them were crap. Maybe seeing so much had changed me, but I was still me. Still a reincarnated university student in the body of some bastard named Leonardo.

The parchment lay silently on the table. The ink, those writhing black symbols from before, now looked ordinary and lifeless.

"Nice trick," I whispered. My voice was hoarse, as if I’d borrowed someone else’s.

Now, in the truest sense, I knew every detail about another person. It was a strange sensation. No human could ever know that much about another. Except maybe conjoined twins, though even then, they can’t read each other’s thoughts.

So, this experience was something impossible in my modern world.

"Fuck, my head hurts like hell."

I shuffled slowly toward the bed on the side and closed my eyes to rest my mind, which had never felt so exhausted before.

---

-One week later-

One useful thing I recalled from Leonardo’s memories was how soldiers who’d fought shoulder-to-shoulder in battle would share their military numbers if they trusted each other enough.

As for what a military number was, it was a system used to easily identify a soldier in case of war, accident, injury, or death. A tiny number was magically etched under the soldier’s tongue, serving as their military identity.

This number was known only to the soldier, so sharing it with someone became a sign of trust. Thanks to this number, retired soldiers could organize themselves. This knowledge alone made me glad I’d delved into Leonardo’s memories.

Because I’d given my military number to Ironheart Mike, the leader of the mercenaries, and he’d given me his in return.

Now, I was looking at the rough, towering, burly man in his forties with a massive scar on his face; none other than Ironheart Mike.

"33133, you haven’t changed a bit. Still ugly as ever, but now you’re old too. I bet your dick doesn’t even get hard anymore..."

Ironheart Mike burst into laughter. A laugh so hearty that even the old battle scars on his chest quivered.

"60616, or should I call you Count Leonardo Argenholt now? I’ve missed that serious expression of yours when you crack those jokes," he said, with a mocking smile slipping through his teeth. He grabbed my shoulder and shook it roughly. His grip was like a vise. This man’s hand was still that of a warrior; calloused, merciless, unforgetting of the scent of blood.

"Now, shall we go to my tent to discuss the matter in the letter you sent?"

Mike’s grip on my shoulder tightened for a moment, then released. A gray glint appeared in his eyes.

"There’s wine in the tent," he said, his voice both inviting and threatening.

I smiled. It was involuntary, as if one of those thousands of memories flooding my mind had forced my lips to curve.

"Before you start asking questions," I said, "know that I didn’t come here to play games, Mike. I’m not here to reminisce about old times or waste time on fake friendships. I have an offer for you. Accept it, and we’ll make history. Reject it..."

I paused for a moment, holding his gaze without blinking. "... reject it, and you’ll be buried alongside the hundreds of broken shields and rusted swords that history has forgotten."

Mike erupted into laughter again. The scar on his face stretched, making his guffaw even more terrifying. Then he leaned toward me, his breath heavy with wine and blood.

"Looks like being a count suits you. Come on, let’s drain a couple of bottles."

He lifted the flap of his tent and gestured me inside. Within were relics of old battles: shields, rusty spears, a broken helmet... and in one corner, a large table. On the table lay a map, marked with dozens of symbols, red ink dots resembling dried bloodstains.

As Mike filled the goblets, I approached the table. My eyes caught on the markings. Overlaying them with what I’d seen in the memories, a picture formed in my mind.

"So you’re still playing the same game," I said, gazing at the map.