Just beyond the Winterheart estate lay the Bloodfang Forest, a place whispered about in hushed tones. People said it was filled with deadly monsters, and that people who entered, never returned.
But that was only a story, a convenient lie to conceal the truth.
The forest belonged to a secretive group known as The Scarlet Apothecary. What they did there was far worse than any monster tale, inhuman and gruesome experiments. They turned human beings into monsters, and with the leftover remains, they brewed pills that granted unnatural boosts of mana.
"BOSS… BOSS!" a man shouted, bursting through the chamber doors, panic dripping from every syllable.
From the shadows, a calm voice answered, "What is it?"
"T-Test subject 221… it's escaped," the man stammered, breathless.
There was a pause, long enough to make him sweat.
"It's fine," said the figure behind the mask, tone indifferent. "It's just one."
"B-but—"
"Enough."
The word cut through the air like a blade, leaving silence in its wake.
The subordinate froze, then quickly backed out of the room, fear swallowing his words.
Alone, the masked man leaned back in his chair. The dying light of the setting sun spilt across the room as he removed his mask. A twisted grin spread across his face.
Meanwhile, at Winterheart estate.
The training ground was silent under the cold night sky. Allen's sword sliced through the air over and over, his fingers torn and bloody, sweat splattered onto the ground. But not one of them was perfect.
He let the sword fall and sank to the floor, pushing his body into constant exercise. Pain worked over his muscles until the pain grew so intense he could barely push himself through the window into his room.
For a week straight, he pushed himself, desperate to gain the muscle needed to wield a sword.
He stuffed his stomach with food, until it ached. He trained until he broke. And did it again the next day, and the next, and so on.
A month had gone by, and Allen's arms were packed with muscle and faint abs showed on his stomach, he was no longer the skinny, scrawny boy he once was.
Even he was surprised by his transformation. For the first time, he had abs, in this life and the last. In his previous life, he was a little fat and hideous, but now he had a handsome face and, well-fit body, which made him feel good.
"Today, I'm going to learn the Winterheart Sword Art," Allen said, rubbing his abs."
He strolled to the library to grab the book of Winterheart Sword Arts, but then he saw Ivy Whitmore and Alex Crystal talking, their expressions looked like they're having fun.
"Tsk… why now?" Allen complained, clearly upset.
He kept his head low, timing each step with the creak of the floorboards. When one of them turned away, he slipped past, silent as a shadow, and disappeared into the library.
"Sigh… I didn't expect to see the main character and the male lead here," Allen said, shaking his head.
He took what he needed and rushed away, moving like someone escaping from jail, careful to avoid the two main characters of the story.
That night, Allen climbed out the window, the cold air brushing his face as he slipped into the darkness toward the training ground.
There are 10 stages of the Winterheart Sword Arts:
1. Ice Cuts
(A fast slash that leaves a trail of ice.)
2. Snowflake
(A wide swing that spreads snow in the air.)
3. Cold Thrust
(A sharp, straight stab that freezes what it hits.)
4. Frozen Spin
(A spinning attack that creates cold wind around you.)
5. Silent Step
(A quiet move to sneak behind the enemy and strike.)
6. Frost Strike
(A strong hit that covers the blade in frost.)
7. Winter Dance
(A light and fast combo of slashes like falling snow.)
8. Cold Blade
(A sword strike that slows the enemy down.)
9. Frozen Heart
(A piercing move aimed at the enemy's heart to freeze and kill them.)
10. Endless Winter
(The final powerful attack that covers everything in ice.)
Before touching the sword arts, he had to start with the basics: footwork, the very core of every style.
Allen practiced the footwork from the book, step by step through each of them. With his second attempt, he was able to replicate the movements accurately. He was intelligent, after all, having spent his entire last life memorising things, this came naturally to him.
He had perfected the footwork, but despite his cleverness, the sword arts could not be learned easily. No amount of intelligence could make them simple, not even for the smartest person in the universe.
To truly master the sword arts, one must draw from emotion, yet at the same time, keep those emotions empty. Any trace of feeling could disrupt the flow, forcing you to restart again and again and again until you reached perfection.
Allen flipped over another page, learning how to perform the Winterheart Sword Arts, then began to replicate each step, every move, exactly as written.
But he was slow. Mistakes piled up one after another. His grip faltered, his swings were weak, and his hands ached with every strike. After struggling for an hour, he finally threw the sword to the ground, rage boiling in him. For a moment, he wanted to give up.
But he didn't give up. Gritting his teeth, Allen held the sword again. He swung, stumbled, and swung once more, forcing his body to repeat the forms over and over. His hands cracked open, blood pouring down the hilt, yet he did not stop.
𝘔𝘺 𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘴 𝘩𝘶𝘳𝘵, 𝘮𝘺 𝘭𝘦𝘨𝘴 𝘢𝘳𝘦 𝘵𝘪𝘳𝘦𝘥. 𝘐'𝘷𝘦 𝘣𝘦𝘦𝘯 𝘴𝘸𝘪𝘯𝘨𝘪𝘯𝘨, 𝘳𝘦𝘱𝘦𝘢𝘵𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘮𝘦 𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯 𝘮𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘴 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳 𝘢𝘨𝘢𝘪𝘯. 𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘢𝘮 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴? 𝘐𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘮𝘺 desire to kill whatever is in my sight?Or 𝘐𝘴 𝘪𝘵 𝘫𝘶𝘴𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘭𝘰𝘰𝘬 𝘤𝘰𝘰𝘭? 𝘐 𝘥𝘰𝘯'𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘢𝘯𝘺𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦.
𝘈𝘭𝘭 𝘐 𝘬𝘯𝘰𝘸 𝘪𝘴.... 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘱𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳. 𝘗𝘰𝘸𝘦𝘳 𝘵𝘰 𝘱𝘳𝘰𝘵𝘦𝘤𝘵 myself and. 𝘛𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘸𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯… 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘴𝘱𝘰𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘮𝘦 𝘴𝘰 𝘸𝘢𝘳𝘮𝘭𝘺. 𝘛𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘣𝘰𝘥𝘺'𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳. 𝘈 𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘥, 𝘨𝘦𝘯𝘵𝘭𝘦 𝘴𝘰𝘶𝘭.
𝘈𝘯𝘥 𝘺𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘦..... he 𝘤𝘩𝘰𝘴𝘦 𝘢 𝘨𝘪𝘳𝘭 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘭𝘰𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮. 𝘞𝘩𝘺?
𝘞𝘏𝘠!? 𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘢 𝘮𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘦𝘳 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳𝘺 𝘥𝘢𝘺! 𝘏𝘦 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘮𝘦𝘰𝘯𝘦 𝘸𝘩𝘰 𝘢𝘤𝘵𝘶𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘤𝘢𝘳𝘦𝘴 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘩𝘪𝘮! 𝘚𝘰 𝘸𝘩𝘺….. 𝘸𝘩𝘺 𝘥𝘰𝘦𝘴 𝘩𝘦 𝘨𝘦𝘵 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘱𝘦𝘳𝘧𝘦𝘤𝘵 𝘭𝘪𝘧𝘦!?
His swings became heavier, sloppier, each strike worse than the last. His emotions bled into every movement, twisting his training into something wild and broken.
Rage coiled in his chest, at that boy who had everything yet threw it all away, while he himself had wanted everything and died before he could reach it.
But then he realized, he was no longer Allen. The moment he came to this world, Allen had already died. Crushed beneath a falling piano, Allen's life ended there.
He wasn't Allen. Not anymore.
He was Nasa.
Nasa Winterheart.