The night was drenched in blood.
Steel clashed under the veil of moonlight as DRAKON, cloaked in black armor worn from war and vengeance, stood surrounded by a dozen masked assassins. His breath was heavy, misting in the cold air. His long dark hair, soaked with sweat and blood, clung to his face as he adjusted his stance. Each movement of his blade was like a whisper of death, cutting through the darkness with ruthless precision.
But numbers had weight. And weight, eventually, wore even the strongest down.
With a surge of coordinated motion, the assassins attacked in a blinding flurry. DRAKON fought like a beast cornered, a tempest of blade and fury—but then came a moment, a single blink too long, and a blade flashed through the chaos, biting into his arm.
A scream, not of pain, but betrayal, tore from his throat.
His right arm—his sword arm—was gone.
He dropped to one knee, breath ragged, pain roaring through him like fire licking bone. Blood sprayed across the cold stone beneath him.
"Who... are you?" he managed, eyes flaring with pain and disbelief as the lead assassin stepped forward.
With practiced ease, the man reached for his mask and removed it.
And the world stopped.
"You..."
A face he knew as well as his own. Handsome, unblemished, eyes cold as the edge of a sword—his elder brother.
"Voster... why? Why are you doing this?"
Voster, the first son of the mighty Arclight clan, smiled. It was not warmth but poison.
"Why?" Voster repeated, as if amused. He leaned down, close enough for Drakon to see the scorn in his eyes. "Getting you kicked out of the clan, framing you for theft, tarnishing your name, stealing your birthright, becoming patriarch... and now this." He raised his blade, gleaming silver in the moonlight. "All of it was part of the plan."
And then, without ceremony, Voster slashed.
DRAKON gasped, the blade cutting through muscle and memory alike. As his body hit the earth, his mind fell backward, plunging into the depths of his past.
---
He was born to the Arclight Clan, a family whose swords carved empires and whose lineage stretched across centuries. Their motto: "Only the strong deserve to shine."
But he—Drakon—was the son of a concubine. His mother, delicate and kind, died in the shadows of the great manor before he even learned her name. His father, the patriarch, never once acknowledged him beyond formality. Among thirteen siblings, all born of noble wives, he was the runt. The cursed one.
He had no talent.
No divine aura, no innate sword sense, no explosive growth. In a clan where even children wielded steel with grace, Drakon struggled to lift a wooden sword.
They mocked him. Shamed him. His training partners deliberately broke bones. His teachers ignored his pleas. The servants whispered, calling him "the stain."
Voster, the perfect first son, smiled at him with an older brother's warmth—but behind that mask was ambition. Voster orchestrated his disgrace: bribed witnesses, manipulated elders, and staged evidence. Drakon was cast out like garbage. And when he tried to survive outside, he was hunted.
One by one, those few who dared care for him vanished. One by one, they paid the price.
And now, even his life was forfeit.
As blood leaked from his wounds, Drakon thought through the haze of pain: Why? Why didn't I ever get a chance? Just a single opportunity...
And then—
Light.
---
He couldn't move.
The pain was gone. His vision was blurred and small. He tried to scream, but only a soft wail came out. Something warm wrapped around him—arms far larger than his tiny body could comprehend.
A voice.
Gentle, old, trembling.
"Young master… you've returned to me…"
He was being held.
He turned his infant face toward a mirror hanging on a cracked wall—and froze.
Tiny limbs. No scars. No wounds. A baby's face stared back at him, wide-eyed.
Tears welled in his eyes.
He wasn't dead.
He had gone back.
Back to the beginning.
Back before the humiliation, before the betrayals, before the blade took his arm.
And the woman holding him—she was older now, but he recognized her. Nanny Mei. The only one who had shown him love. The one who was cast out with him. The one who died shielding his broken body in an alley from Voster's final betrayal.
His tiny fingers curled into the cloth of her robe.
"I'm sorry," he whispered—but it came out as a baby's sob.
This time… it would be different.
This time, he would rise.
This time, he would protect her.
He would protect everything he once lost.
And when he met Voster again…
He would be the one standing.
---
To be continued…