After seven or eight years of testing the edges of my abilities, I had learned very little about this world.
Every time I tried to listen closely, trying to catch secrets or hidden words, a faint buzzing sound would creep into my mind. It blurred the conversation, swallowed the names, and made the meaning impossible to catch.
It was as if some invisible force didn't want me to know certain truths. No matter how hard I strained, how long I focused, the barrier remained.
---
From what little I could gather, this was a fantasy world — much like the novels I had read.
Magicians drew on mana to cast their spells, bending elements and forces with careful control.
Swordmasters wielded aura, shaping it like a weapon around themselves until it cut through enemies like air itself.
I had none of that. My abilities were different, strange, and untouchable by those rules. I couldn't use mana or aura; I couldn't follow the paths of magic or sword technique.
What I had was something else — crude, limited, but mine.
---
The world itself seemed divided, simmering with constant conflict.
Magicians and aura-users were at war, each trying to dominate the other, and their struggles spilled into every corner of society.
And me? I was nothing but a failed successor of the Nightreign family, one of the most feared and respected clans in this land.
My father, the family head, was said to be the strongest swordmaster alive, cutting down demons as easily as a farmer cuts grass.
I didn't know much beyond that — only that demons existed here, and only that they were terrifying.
Not my fault, not my doing, but the danger was real.
---
Tadap… tadap…
Wait. That sound. Footsteps?
Voices, low and urgent, floated down the corridor.
"Heh… move quietly. Tonight, we have to kill the young master at any cost," a rough voice hissed to another.
"Understood. No mistakes. No witnesses," came the reply.
"Is he sleeping?" another whisper asked.
"Maybe… what should we do so we cause less commotion? Shhh—"
—two heads fell down immediately.
Tap… tap…