Reinhard's fingers slowly slid across the edge of the oak table, leaving a faint, barely noticeable trace on its dark, polished surface. The room was silent, the only sound being the faint crackling of the flames in the fireplace, disrupting the cold tranquility. Sunlight filtered through the heavy curtains in thin, cutting beams, turning the air into a wavering web of light and shadow.
He gazed thoughtfully into the fire, allowing his thoughts to spark and fade one after another.
"To truly regain my power…"
His voice was quiet, like the distant rumble of thunder in a windless desert.
"I need to recreate what made me who I was. My mana attributes."
He slowly closed his eyes, inhaling the scent of burning logs. Scenes from his past life flashed in his mind: thousands of battles, endless fights, blood, blades, magic that split the sky. His power in the past had not only relied on his swordsmanship but also on the terrifying strength of his magic—the strength of two attributes that had become his seal in the history of this world.
Dark Iron.
The Fallen Constellation.
They were his soul and his sword.
He opened his eyes. Faint glimmers of fire danced in the depths of his pupils.
For any other being, creating their own mana attribute would be impossible. It would not just be a violation of the natural order—it would be sacrilege. A denial of the very fabric of the world. An attempt to bend not the laws of nature, but the will of the God who created them.
The few madmen who tried to alter the nature of mana vanished without a trace. They were cursed, exterminated. Churches, orders of mages, knightly orders of light—everyone who considered themselves protectors of the world would tirelessly hunt him down if his secret became known.
But for him…
For him, it was nothing more than background noise. A dull hum at the edge of his consciousness.
"They don't care about the truth," he muttered quietly. "They only care about maintaining order. Chains."
He smirked—briefly, joylessly, as though he were laughing at the very idea of fear.
"I don't care about their fears. I don't care about their fury."
He knew the cost of what he was about to do.
But he also knew the price of loss.
In the past, he had spent decades studying the nature of attributes. He had sought ways to enhance his own power, researched, analyzed, experimented. He was not just a killer on the battlefield—he was a researcher, an alchemist of magic, a madman and a genius at the same time.
He had spent thirty years on the front lines of war. His flesh, his bones, his blood—all had been hardened in the true hell of combat.
And he knew the structure of his attributes better than he knew the lines of his own palm.
Dark Iron—the attribute of absorption and destruction. Mana turned into living metal, invulnerable to light and time.
The Fallen Constellation—the attribute of the fall of great powers. Magic that tore at the fabric of reality, dragging the heavens down into the muck.
These forces were his crown. His sword. His mark.
And he had no intention of abandoning them.
Reinhard slowly rose from his chair. His shadow trembled on the floor, merging with the shadows of the flames. He crossed the room, his steps silent, like a cat's.
In the far corner stood a wall with weapon mounts. Among the many swords and daggers, one item stood out: a long sword in black sheaths, almost invisible in the room's half-darkness.
Ayn-Rog.
The ancestral sword of the Deira family.
A blade forged from Dark Iron.
He extended his hand, and the cold steel met his palm. A soft hum ran through his fingers, as if the metal recognized its master.
"It's time to begin," he whispered.
His fingers tightened around the hilt of the sword.
And in that moment, the room froze.
As if reality itself, realizing what he was about to do, held its breath in anticipation of what was to come.