Reivan Valcrest groaned as he woke up, his head pounding like he had spent all night grinding ranked matches and chugging energy drinks. But when he opened his eyes, the sight that greeted him wasn’t his cluttered gaming desk or his old apartment.

Wooden beams. A small, dimly lit room. A rough, straw-filled mattress.

“…The hell?”

His body felt lighter, unfamiliar. He sat up, clutching his head, and it all came rushing back—his past life, his high school days spent obsessing over Age of Dominion, the strategy RPG he had poured countless hours into.

His name had been Kang Ji-ho, a regular Korean guy who had coasted through life, more interested in min-maxing game strategies than studying. He had lived an unremarkable existence, working odd jobs and barely scraping by in a cramped apartment. The only thing he had ever truly excelled at was Age of Dominion, where he had been known for breaking the game’s economy and discovering hidden mechanics.

And now? He was inside that very world.

Reivan wasn’t stupid. He had read enough manhwa to recognize a reincarnation scenario when he saw one. This should have been exciting, right? A fresh start, a new life filled with adventure and power?

So why, out of all possible roles, was he a merchant’s son?!

He looked around. The small room was cramped with sacks of grain, wooden crates, and cheap trinkets. His memories filled in the gaps—his new name was Reivan, the only son of a minor merchant in Ravensburg, a small trade city. His father, Gerald Valcrest, was a struggling trader who specialized in selling common goods. No noble blood. No special powers. Just… a merchant’s kid.

“…I really got the NPC treatment.”

Reivan sighed. Alright, fine. He wasn’t a duke’s heir, but this wasn’t so bad. He knew how the world worked thanks to his game knowledge. The safest play? Stay out of the main plot, make some easy money, and slack off in peace.

----------------------------------------

THE FIRST MISUNDERSTANDING

As they ate, Gerald shuffled through a few papers, his brows furrowed in concern.

“Something wrong?” Reivan asked, more out of politeness than actual curiosity.

His father sighed. “I’ve been thinking about investing in iron shipments. There’s a rumor that Duke Farnell is expanding his army. If that’s true, the price of iron will skyrocket.”

Reivan nearly choked on his porridge.

This was one of the early game traps in Age of Dominion. Duke Farnell wasn’t expanding his army yet. That wouldn’t happen for another year. Right now, the iron market was about to crash due to an oversupply.

Reivan hesitated. He didn’t want to stand out, but watching his father lose money over something so obviously wrong? He couldn’t ignore it.

“…I wouldn’t do it,” he muttered.

Gerald looked up. “What?”

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

“I mean,” Reivan scratched his cheek, “Iron’s not a good investment right now. Prices will drop soon.”

Gerald frowned. “And what makes you say that?”

Reivan panicked for a second before lazily shrugging. “Just a hunch.”

His father studied him for a long moment before sighing. “You’ve never been interested in trade before, but… you’ve got a sharp mind. Maybe I should trust your gut this time.”

Reivan internally sighed in relief. Crisis avoided.

Two days later, news spread through Ravensburg. The iron trade had collapsed, and dozens of merchants who had invested in it were ruined.

Gerald, who had hesitated because of Reivan’s warning, had just dodged a massive loss.

Rumors started.

“The Valcrest family didn’t invest in iron? How did they know?!”

“I heard their son predicted the crash.”

“A prodigy?! A hidden genius?!”

Within a week, Reivan went from ‘merchant’s lazy son’ to ‘mysterious young strategist.’ And it only got worse.

----------------------------------------

A MERCHANT’S HOME

A knock on the door interrupted his thoughts. Before Reivan could react, the door creaked open, and a broad-shouldered man with graying hair stepped inside. His rough hands and weathered face showed years of hard labor, yet his eyes carried a gentle warmth.

“Reivan, you’re finally awake,” the man—his father, Gerald Valcrest—said with a relieved smile. “You had me worried, boy. You slept like the dead.”

Reivan blinked. His memories told him that Gerald wasn’t the strict or ambitious type. Just an honest man trying to get by. A bit stubborn, but kind.

“I… uh, I was just tired,” Reivan mumbled, still adjusting to the situation. “Did I sleep long?”

“Two whole days,” Gerald said, shaking his head. “You’ve never been sick before, so I didn’t know what to do. Almost called a priest.”

Two days? That explained the headache. His soul must’ve needed time to fully merge with this body.

“Sorry about that,” Reivan said, scratching the back of his head. “I feel fine now.”

Gerald sighed in relief. “That’s good. But don’t push yourself too hard. Come, eat something.”

Reivan followed his father to the small wooden table in the main room. The house was modest—worn furniture, but well-maintained. A fireplace crackled softly, adding warmth to the otherwise chilly morning.

A simple meal of bread, cheese, and a bowl of porridge sat on the table. Reivan hesitated before taking a bite. He had expected bland, medieval-era food, but…

“…This is actually pretty good,” he admitted.

Gerald chuckled. “Of course! You think your old man doesn’t know how to make a proper meal?”

Reivan felt something unfamiliar—a small warmth in his chest. It had been a long time since someone had cared for him like this. His past life had been filled with long nights alone, takeout meals, and cold apartment rooms.

Maybe this reincarnation thing wasn’t so bad.

----------------------------------------

The Second Misunderstanding

One day, while Reivan was running an errand, he wandered into a crowded plaza where mercenaries were recruiting. Vendors were hawking wares, blacksmiths displayed freshly forged weapons, and armored men barked orders at new recruits. He had no real business there, but the commotion drew his attention.

Out of sheer curiosity, he stopped at the training grounds where a group of mercenaries were sparring. It was nothing impressive—just a bunch of undertrained fighters swinging swords and barely maintaining their footing.

With his arms crossed, Reivan idly watched, his mind half-distracted. Tch. Their stances are all wrong. That guy’s exposing his side. That shield user isn’t even blocking properly. It was the kind of casual analysis he always did when playing Age of Dominion—a habit he had picked up after thousands of hours spent breaking the game’s mechanics.

To any bystander, however, he wasn’t just standing there. He was silently evaluating the fighters, his eyes sharp, expression unreadable. His posture—leaned slightly forward with a hand resting near his chin—made it look like he was deep in thought, judging their movements like a war strategist.

Viscount Roderic, a noble overseeing military affairs, happened to be passing by. When his gaze landed on Reivan, he paused.

“What precision… what insight… That young man—could he be a hidden strategist?!” he muttered to his assistant.

Before Reivan could even leave, whispers spread like wildfire.

By the time Reivan had made his way to the market’s exit, he noticed something strange.

Why were so many people staring at him like he had just passed judgment on their entire profession?

And most importantly—why was that noble looking at him like he had just found the next great war strategist?!