To the settlers who braved the treacherous seas and carved their names into the untamed lands of the New World, Mr. Thomas Howlett was a man of legend. A figure whose name carried weight among the colonial elite, he was the very embodiment of iron-willed ambition. In his eyes, he was not just another settler—he was a pioneer, a conqueror shaping the destiny of an unclaimed world. Where others saw wilderness, he saw dominion. Where men cowered before the unknown, he thrived, carving civilization into the land with blood, sweat, and an unrelenting will.
But the truth of his origins was far less grand. His father had been a mere chief mate aboard a whaling ship, a man hardened by the merciless tides and endless storms. There was no nobility in that lineage—no great fortune, no birthright to wealth or power. Only the call of the sea and the back-breaking toil of sailors who knew nothing but survival. But Thomas Howlett refused to be bound by the past.
In 1763, when Britain claimed Canada as another jewel in its ever-expanding empire, it was little more than an untamed wilderness. By the time young Thomas set foot upon its soil in 1802, he had nothing but a flintlock pistol inherited from his father, a well-worn walking stick, and three pounds, fifteen shillings to his name.
His elder brother had inherited the family's whaling business—a legacy built on harpoons and blood-stained decks. But Thomas wanted no part of the sea. The ocean had taken too much already—his father, his childhood, and any semblance of warmth he might have once known as home.
So he turned to the land, determined to forge his own empire.
Decades passed, and the name Howlett became synonymous with wealth and power. By the year 1842, he was the largest landowner in the settlement of Edmond. His sprawling estates stretched across rolling hills and fertile fields, a testament to his unyielding ambition. The settlers revered him. The British aristocracy acknowledged him as one of their own. He was no longer just a colonist—he was a titan of industry, a man who had shaped his own destiny.
Yet, despite his fortune and influence, one fear gnawed at him, a silent specter that haunted his every waking moment—the fear that his bloodline was weak.
His youth had been filled with reckless passion. He had sought strength in the arms of many women, driven by an insatiable desire to leave a lasting mark upon the world. And yet, at the age of sixty, he had only one surviving son—John Howlett—and a single grandson,James.
The boy was frail, as fragile as a flower in the frost. It enraged Thomas.
He sat in his grand study, pipe clenched between his teeth, his weathered hands tightening around the finely carved wooden stem. Smoke curled around his face as he exhaled slowly, his mind weighed down by frustration.
"Is Jamie better?" His voice, usually steady and commanding, carried an edge of unspoken worry.
John, standing stiffly near the fireplace, hesitated. "Father Hans has seen him. The fever hasn't broken completely, but the coughing has lessened. He woke briefly, had some water, then drifted off again."
John understood how much James survival meant to the old man. He had witnessed firsthand the silent devastation that followed the loss of another grandchild before. Though Thomas Howlett had never openly wept, the grief had been etched into his face, an unspoken wound that never fully healed.
Thomas inhaled deeply, his grip on the pipe tightening until his knuckles turned white. A flicker of rage burned behind his steely gaze.
"When I was ten years old, I could carry a harpoon and clean a rusted anchor with my bare hands! I could wrestle a thousand-pound calf to the ground, and yet my grandson—my own blood—looks as weak as a newborn lamb!"
John shifted uneasily. "Father, times have changed. Tony was young—"
But Thomas's glare darkened.
"He was taken by disease!" The words came like venom. "Those damned foreigners bring their filth and sickness from across the seas. I will not allow another one of their kind to step foot in my household—never!"
His fingers trembled around the pipe as old wounds reopened.
John, realizing he had stirred something dangerous, lowered his head and quietly changed the subject, guiding his father toward the parlor.
Awakening in a New Body
James had heard every word.
Even in his feverish state, he had listened—his grandfather's voice, the frustration, the fear woven between the anger.
He kept his eyes closed, feigning sleep. It was safer that way.
When he had first awoken earlier, his body had acted instinctively—reaching for water, responding in ways that felt natural. Yet, the more he remained in this frail form, the more his mind rebelled against reality.
This isn't right.
Reincarnation? Wasn't there supposed to be a process? A journey through the underworld? A moment of divine reckoning? Instead, he had simply... woken up.
James squeezed his eyes shut.
This wasn't a dream. It wasn't some fleeting illusion. It was real.
And yet, his body was weak. Fever still clung to his bones like a phantom's grasp. Exhaustion weighed him down like iron shackles. But somewhere deep within, fragmented memories stirred—memories of battle, of strength, of fists colliding with flesh. He had been strong once, hadn't he? And yet, this body was nothing but a sickly shell.
Victor Logan: The Wild Cub
The estate buzzed with cautious optimism as news spread—Master James had awakened.
For the servants, it was just another cycle in a life of quiet fear. They had learned to tiptoe whenever the young master fell ill, afraid that his fragile condition would stoke Mr. Howlett's already volatile temper. But among the children, the news carried excitement—especially for one boy,
Victor Logan.
The gardener's son, born of rough blood and whispered rumors. He was always there when James was sick, lurking in the shadows, watching.
Mr. Howlett, for all his rigid beliefs, saw promise in the boy. "He will grow into a loyal manservant," he often said.
But John Howlett hated Victor. He despised his wild, untamed presence—his unkempt hair, his sharp nails, the almost feral look in his eyes. But most of all, he despised the bloodline Victor carried.
A Visit from a Predator
Later that evening, when Thomas Howlett heard that James had eaten, his mood lightened. He ascended the grand staircase and entered his grandson's room.
James looked up, his dark eyes sharp with newfound intensity.
"Jamie, how do you feel? Are you still in pain?"
It was rare to see vulnerability in Thomas Howlett's expression. Though he tried to hide it beneath his usual stern demeanor, there was no mistaking the flicker of genuine concern in his voice.
James caught the shift instantly. He sat up, forcing a small, polite smile. "Grandpa, I'm feeling much better. My head doesn't hurt at all. I'm sorry to have worried you."
Thomas's gaze softened slightly.
The boy was the spitting image of his mother, Elizabeth—dark hair, deep eyes. A delicate-looking child, yet composed beyond his years.
The old man nodded approvingly. "Good. You need to be stronger, Jamie.
The Beast Awakens
Not long after, Victor Logan barged into James room, his blade flashing as he trimmed his monstrous nails.
"You're always sick, Jamie," he scoffed, his voice laced with something unspoken.
James, watching closely, caught the glint of something strange beneath Victor's nails. Something sharp. Something unnatural.
As he picked up a broken piece of discarded nail, his heart began to pound.
Something inside him stirred.
Something wild.