Heavy swing. Light swing. Slash. Stab. Side-step. Slash again.
I copied the moves in the air, replaying the fight I saw yesterday. (Wow… how the hell did he do that? He made it look so effortless!)
But training could wait.
An hour ago, I was still lost inside this ridiculous mansion. Seriously, this place was too big. Luxurious, sure, but it felt more like a maze than a home. I'd been wandering for what felt like forever, and I couldn't even find a single maid.
"Wait a sec…" I froze mid-step. "What was that guy's name again?!"
My stomach dropped. The crimson knight who saved me—I didn't even know his name! And if I thanked him without knowing it? Yeah, I'd probably be dead before I could blink.
Ask a maid? No way. They already looked at me like I was some suspicious pest. If I slipped up, they'd probably kill me before their master did.
Just as I cursed under my breath, a maid appeared from the corridor. Jackpot.
I rushed over. "Hello, beautiful lady. Can you… uh, guide me to the training grounds? I already have permission to use it."
She raised an eyebrow but nodded. "Follow me, sir."
I trailed behind her. As we walked, something bugged me. I hadn't seen a single male servant inside the mansion.
"Hey, so… the master of the house only hires female maids?"
The maid stopped, turned, and tilted her head at me like I'd just asked if water was wet.
"You really don't know?"
I scratched my neck, smiling awkwardly.
With a sigh, she explained, "Only women work inside. Men do the outside labor. The head butler serves directly under Sir Frederick at all times."
"Ah. R-right, of course. I knew that," I lied, nodding like a wise man who definitely didn't just hear the name for the first time.
Frederick, huh? Cool name.
Seeing my clueless face, the maid sighed again. "…Fine. Ask what you want. I'll answer as much as possible."
And that's when the history lesson started.
Frederick D. Star.
Age: 38. Status: Single. No noble blood. Yet feared more than any duke or prince.
The eldest child of the Star family, ruler of the City of Davao—the City of Wealth, the beating heart of trade itself. Silk, spices, food, animals, even information flowed through their hands. The Stars were not nobles; they were merchants who had risen so high, their shadow stretched over royalty itself.
But power breeds jealousy.
When Frederick was sixteen, tragedy struck. His father, a merchant beloved by rich and poor alike, was summoned to the royal palace. He never returned. Both parents were said to have been "ambushed by bandits" along the road—but whispers among the loyal servants and traders told a darker truth: the crown itself had ordered the assassination.
Mariana was only five. When the news arrived, the siblings' world shattered. Mariana cried relentlessly, barely eating, her small body trembling from grief and exhaustion. She would have withered away if Albert—the Star family's head butler—had not gently forced her to rest, knocking her down without causing harm. Frederick, in stark contrast, became silent. He stared at the ceiling for hours, eyes hollow, as though the light of life had left him entirely. Even during the funeral, while Mariana wept and wailed inconsolably, Frederick's face remained a mask of cold, unspoken despair.
The crown sent gifts, and a so-called investigation claimed they had been ambushed by bandits. Albert, unable to bear the falsehoods, finally revealed the truth to Frederick: nobles and royalty had struck, seeking the Stars' wealth and influence.
That day, Frederick swore revenge.
He trained under Albert—the so-called Monster Swordsman. Albert was no ordinary teacher. His style, the Light Sword, moved faster than thought itself. Strikes became invisible flashes, cleaving armor, bone, and steel alike. To witness him was to understand how fragile and fleeting life truly was.
Frederick—just a boy—was thrown into the eye of that storm.
The training was relentless. Days blurred into nights, nights into endless weeks. He woke before dawn, bleeding and sweating, and only rested when the sun finally set. Every strike burned into memory. Every parry carved instinct into bone. Pain became language. Fatigue became teacher and mentor. And Frederick welcomed it all, letting his grief and rage sharpen him like steel against a whetstone.
The world outside remained unaware of his transformation—at first. Assassins sent to eliminate him vanished without a trace, swallowed by shadow and blood. Nobles who plotted against the Stars found their schemes undone before they could touch a dagger. Royals, wielding armies and empires, discovered a terrifying truth: Frederick could not be touched. Strike at him, and their realms would crumble. Merchants and trade routes they depended on would vanish in a heartbeat. Every city, every port, every source of wealth bent, unwillingly, before a boy who had become a blade.
Frederick was known as The Demon Slasher. A name whispered in fear across kingdoms. A man who killed without hesitation, without remorse, without mercy. Every strike a lesson. Every duel a reckoning. His hatred for royal blood was absolute, fueled by the murder of his parents, the betrayal of those who should have protected him, and the endless injustice of a world ruled by lineage rather than merit.
Before the title, before the whispers, before the world even knew his name—he was still Frederick. Just a man traveling in a carriage after a meeting with the city's merchants.
But fate had other plans.
The ambush came like a storm. Bandits and assassins emerged from the treeline, hundreds strong, a tide of shadow and steel. Arrows darkened the sky, striking the carriage, splintering wood and tearing cloth. Horses screamed, panicked, kicking and rearing, their hooves churning the dirt. The sound of metal striking metal, of shields buckling and swords clanging, filled the forest with a deafening roar.
Frederick's guards fought valiantly, but the enemy pressed from all sides, sheer numbers overwhelming training. And then he acted.
He moved like lightning, faster than any man could track. His blade—or whatever weapon he drew—was a blur. Decapitations, dismemberments, and searing strikes unfolded in moments, leaving the battlefield painted in crimson. Some bandits were cut in half mid-lunge. Others were burned by light-sword magic fire and traps Frederick had unleashed. Limbs were severed with surgical precision. No mercy, no hesitation. Just the relentless efficiency of a man who had decided that only one side would survive.
The surviving witnesses—merchants, travelers, and a few shocked soldiers—could barely speak of it afterward. "It was like watching a shadow move and kill itself into reality," one soldier muttered. Another, trembling, said he could feel the dead staring at him from the blood-soaked earth.
When the last bandit fell, the forest fell silent. The air was heavy with smoke, the acrid stench of burning wood, and the coppery tang of blood. Amidst the carnage, there he was—sitting on the heap of bodies, small against the enormity of what had happened, yet impossibly commanding. Blood coated his arms and face, his clothes soaked in gore, but his gaze remained calm, cold, and unyielding.
Then he looked at the responding soldiers—men who had survived battles and sieges, men who thought they had seen horror. Their knees buckled. Their breaths caught in their throats. There was no anger, no triumph, no malice in his eyes. Only… judgment.
A single look from Frederick could silence a battlefield. And that day, it did.
The soldiers later recounted that even standing there, amidst the bodies of their own comrades and the dead bandits, they felt as if Frederick was not a man, but a force of nature—a storm contained in human form. Every instinct screamed: Do not approach. Do not breathe. Do not live.
No one yet called him the Demon Slasher, but the whispers had begun. And the legend had already started to carve itself into the world.
But Frederick's legend was not built on rage alone. There was method in the monster. Strategy, calculation, and foresight. He learned not only to strike, but to survive. He became a master of anticipation, reading enemies before they moved, predicting the flow of battle as if it were written in the air itself. Towns he protected whispered his name in reverence. Enemies cowered before the shadow of the man who would not bend, would not bow, would not yield.
Even now, I could feel it—the weight of his legacy. The swords around me seemed alive, humming with echoes of strikes and parries from decades past. The air carried the faint metallic scent of blood, memory, and the endless discipline of a man who had become legend. Every weapon glimmered as if aware of the Demon Slasher's presence, waiting for the next hand bold—or foolish—enough to wield it.
Somewhere deep in me, a single thought stirred:damn its like I am reading manhwas or manga this soo unreal...
By the time the maid finished telling stories and information, I was speechless.
Back in my mind is like:
"…Wait… wait wait wait. You're telling me that guy… is basically Batman with a sword?!"
I almost screamed. His backstory alone could have carried an entire series. And me? I was the clueless sidekick who wandered into his mansion.
Still… I couldn't help but feel a strange sense of relief.
If this Demon Slasher was on my side, maybe—just maybe—my future was safe. Maybe the nightmares of bandits, assassins, and ruthless nobles wouldn't reach me. Maybe I could survive this new, dangerous world.
And yet… the weight of his reputation pressed down on me. Demon Slasher. The name alone made my skin crawl. It wasn't just a title—it was a warning. A promise of death for anyone foolish enough to cross him. I shivered, imagining the countless lives his blade had ended, the blood spilled without hesitation, the enemies who had vanished before they could even blink.
And still, despite the fear, despite the whispers of death, there was awe. A strange pull that made me want to follow, to learn, to witness. To be near the storm without being swallowed by it.
What a terrifying title. And yet… somehow, it felt like a shield.
A shield I desperately hoped I could hide behind.
And, strangely enough, after hearing his history, I felt a weird connection to him. Like I'd just stumbled into someone else's story.
By the time we reached the training grounds, I felt like I'd just sat through a three-hour movie marathon.
And then—I froze.
The training grounds were massive, stretching farther than I could see. Sunlight streamed through high windows, dust motes dancing in the air like tiny sparks of magic. It felt… ancient. Unused for years, maybe decades, yet somehow meticulously maintained. The floors were polished, the racks aligned perfectly, and the air smelled faintly of oiled metal and aged wood.
Rows upon rows of weapons lined the walls—spears standing tall like sentinels, bows curved elegantly like crescent moons, pikes stretching toward the ceiling, and an impressive variety of swords: longswords, shortswords, and even odd ceremonial blades I didn't recognize. Each weapon gleamed in the sunlight, as if it were waiting for its master to return.
It was like walking into a medieval RPG armory, the kind I had only ever dreamed about in games and novels. I couldn't help gawking, my eyes tracing the craftsmanship on each blade—the intricate engravings, the smooth polish, the way even the simplest weapon seemed ready for battle.
A soft sigh echoed from behind me. One of the maids, arms crossed, muttered something about "mercenary bums" under her breath before disappearing down a side corridor. I blinked and shook my head, trying to focus on the weapons before me.
I picked up a training sword. Its weight was just right—heavier than I expected, but not cumbersome. I twirled it experimentally, feeling the balance in my hand. This was no ordinary practice blade. Every swing made a satisfying whoosh, and for a brief moment, I could almost imagine the clang of a real duel ringing in my ears.
I stepped into the middle of the hall, my heart racing. Rows of weapons, the polished floor, the faint smell of metal and oil—it all screamed potential, adventure, and danger. My fingers itched to swing, to train, to push myself.
And somewhere deep in the back of my mind, a single thought kept repeating:This is where legends are made.
"Ha! Slash! Stab!" I muttered to myself, hacking at the air like an action movie stuntman. I even threw in a dodge-roll for flair. I felt cool for about three seconds before realizing—(yeah, nah. Negative one hundred aura. I look like a total clown).
After working up a sweat, I collapsed onto the ground, panting. My body screamed, but there was a strange exhilaration too. My first real exercise since reincarnating.
(If I can do that… what if I push further?)
So I ran. Back and forth. A hundred times. Push-ups. Sit-ups. Sword swings. Stabs. Slashes. A thousand repetitions.
My body groaned, but… weirdly enough, it wasn't impossible. I still had strength left.
That's when a thought hit me.
(Can I… copy Frederick's sword style? Like… exactly how he fought that day?)
I closed my eyes. Replayed his movements in my mind. The heavy swings, the light ones. The sudden stab after a feint. The way his footwork carried him into the blind spot of his enemy.
I swung. Hard.
Clang.
My wooden training sword struck against the training dummy, but in my head—it was Frederick's blade clashing against assassin dual blades. Sparks exploding. Fire burning. The sound of death.
I slashed again. Faster. The steps echoed in my head. Big step. Small step. Side-step. Slash.
Again and again.
Until I was immersed completely, imagining the clash of steel in my ears.
My wooden training sword struck against the dummy, but in my mind—it wasn't wood. It was Frederick's blade, gleaming with deadly light. Assassin blades met his in a shower of sparks, slicing through the air with a hiss that made my stomach twist. Fire erupted where steel clashed, smoke curling upward as screams and shouts echoed in my ears.
I stepped forward, swinging again. Big step. Small step. Side-step. Slash. The rhythm of his movements pulsed in my veins, as if my body had memorized his every strike.
Clang! Clang! My sword collided with imaginary steel. I felt the impact, the recoil, the weight of life or death pressing on me. I ducked instinctively, rolling to the side. The ground became scorched battlefield dirt in my mind, littered with fallen enemies.
A shadow darted toward me—a blur of motion. I swung high, felt the air cut like a blade, and the phantom opponent parried, sending sparks flying. The clang of blades was deafening, reverberating in my chest.
I leapt, spinning midair. My wooden sword traced a blazing arc of light that only existed in my hallucination. I stabbed low, dodged a counter, and pivoted. The phantom attackers were relentless, but my strikes flowed perfectly, faster than I thought I could move.
My breathing quickened. Sweat streamed down my face. My heart pounded like war drums. Each strike, each step, each dodge—I wasn't just mimicking Frederick anymore. I was inside his fight, tasting the tension, the fear, the sheer power he wielded.
I imagined the last enemy before him—cornered, desperate. The blade in my hands felt impossibly heavy… then impossibly light. One final slash, and sparks exploded like fireworks. Silence fell. The phantom battlefield faded. Only me, standing in the center of the training ground, drenched in sweat, my chest heaving.
I blinked. My wooden sword hit the dummy with a hollow thunk, and I realized I had been moving faster than ever before, almost effortlessly. My fingers tingled, my arms screamed—but the thrill of battle lingered, intoxicating.
My eyes snapped toward the corridor—but the hall was empty.
Shivers ran down my spine. A presence was closer than ever, and I could feel it watching me, waiting.
I froze, pretending I hadn't felt the presence behind me, though my entire body screamed that someone was watching. My heart hammered as I thought about the countless manhwa and manga I'd read—how dangerous it was to mimic someones style. People got killed for trying to copy secret techniques.
A minute passed. The cold, bloodlust-filled gaze faded. My chest heaved as if I had survived something impossible. Did he… spare me?
I sank to the ground, trying to calm my shaking hands and racing mind. Tomorrow, I'd meet him… the real Frederick. And I'd probably be killed on sight. Maybe I should run.
Then a voice broke the silence.
"Impressive."
I spun around—fast, panicked, like a startled animal—and faced him.
A man in a flawless black suit, tall and imposing, stood there. White beard, piercing black eyes that could freeze a man in place without a sword. Six-foot-one of sheer intimidation. I murmured, trembling, "An… expert…"
The man raised an eyebrow. "Wait. Let me explain. I… I just imagined what I saw one day ago. I was only practicing evades and strikes," I stammered, trying to justify myself.
He stared at me, expression unreadable. "You… you just observe someone and copy it?" His tone was flat, but the weight of his gaze pressed on me like a physical force.
Then he straightened and handed me a bundle of clothes. "Sir Frederick requests your presence at dinner, along with Miss Mariana. Take a bath. Change quickly."
I blinked, looking outside. Night had already fallen. I hadn't even noticed. "Oh… I—I'm sorry," I muttered, my voice barely above a whisper.