The silence in the room felt heavy, almost like a thick blanket draped over him. The distant ticking of a clock, the soft hum of torches flickering outside, and the wind gently whispering through the cracks in the stone all blended into a dull, suffocating noise.
Lyonel sat completely still. His body felt alien to him, his pulse steady while his mind raced with thoughts. And then it hit him.
A sharp pain sliced through his skull, sudden and blinding. He instinctively clutched his head as a torrent of images surged through his mind like a crashing wave.
Voices. Faces. Screams.
A sword shimmering under a blood-red moon.
A battlefield soaked in blood.
The acrid smell of burning flesh.
And his own voice older by estimate thirty to forty years old, filled with desperation and defiance.
"I won't die like a coward!"
The scenes whirled faster, one after another: blades clashing, flames roaring, men in armor bowing to a crest he now recognized. The Aristeo family crest.
Then came the final memory, the one that cut deeper than any physical wound.
Chains.
A cold stone floor pressing against his knees.
Dozens of armored guards standing silently, their faces obscured by helms.
And before him, perched on a raised throne of black marble his father.
Belal Aristeo.
Lyonel's body shook as he relived it.
He could feel the weight of that man's gaze once more cold, sharp, and unbearably heavy.
"I never wanted to do this,"
Belal's voice echoed through the hall, each word slow and deliberate, carrying the calm cruelty of a man who had long buried his emotions.
"Even if you were worthless, you did rise. You became a powerful mercenary. I would have genuinely praised you for that…"
For a brief moment, a flicker of pride colored the man's tone, only to vanish just as quickly.
"But you went and signed with the demons. You sold your soul and became one of them. A demonic human. A traitor to your own kind."
Lyonel's heart tightened as he watched himself kneel there, powerless, bloodied, and wearing a bitter smile.
That version of him had embraced death not in peace, but out of sheer exhaustion.
Belal's eyes burned with disgust.
"How utterly worthless. Even the word 'goodbye' refuses to acknowledge your name."
And then, shhhk!
A blade sliced through the air.
Lyonel's vision spun, the world tilting at an alarming angle. For a brief, terrifying heartbeat, he caught a glimpse of his own headless body crumpling to the floor, blood spreading across the dark marble.
He watched as Belal turned away, not even bothering to look back.
The vision shattered.
Lyonel shot upright in his chair, gasping for air. Sweat dripped down his forehead, and his breath came in quick, uneven gasps. The faint sound of that blade still echoed in his ears.
He gripped the table, his eyes wide and trembling. "...What the hell was that?" he whispered, though deep down, he already had an inkling.
Those weren't Kores' memories.
They were Lyonel's his own, right up to the moment of his death.
He leaned back, his heart racing. "Executed by his own father… for becoming a demonic human." A bitter laugh escaped him. "So, that's how it all ended."
He gazed at his reflection in the glass. The face of a boy who had been betrayed by both sides, now harboring the mind of a killer.
"Two lives," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper. "Two deaths. Two sets of sins."
The pain surged through him again, sharper this time, crawling through his skull like a wildfire. Images, voices, feelings none of them truly his but they burned as if they were.
So these are my memories…
He caught glimpses of a woman, pale and smiling weakly, before her hand fell lifelessly.
My mother died giving birth to me.
Then there was his father, Belal Aristeo, looming over the crib, his expression blank, eyes colder than steel. Not a flicker of sadness in sight.
My father didn't care about me at all.
And then the rest came into focus. Brothers and sisters, all perfect, all sharp and cruel, all training to be killers. And there he was… the seventh son. The failure. The disgrace.
All the other kids treated me like a scapegoat.
The memories tightened around his head laughter, mockery, slaps. He saw himself or rather, Lyonel—flinching, crying, running to his room after being hit by the youngest, Melviana. A little girl who could make a boy sob like a beaten dog.
I was such a wimp that I would actually run to my room and cry. Wow.
He clenched his teeth, his jaw trembling with a mix of disgust and disbelief.
Out of eight children born into a family of killers… he was the seventh, the weakest, the softest, the punching bag everyone took turns beating on.
Scenes flashed before him: Lyonel kneeling, apologizing, shaking. The branch families using him as bait, as a shield. A tool to curry favor with the main bloodline while they spat behind his back. Every memory painted the same picture: weakness. Dependence. Fear.
Kores let out a dry laugh, one that felt anything but human. "So the famous Kores Kruger," he muttered, his voice dripping with sarcasm, "the ghost of over a thousand kills… reincarnated as a little noble punching bag."
He shook his head, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Kuso… zankoku da na."
(Damn, how cruel.)
With a heavy sigh, he leaned back in the chair, his eyes half-closed.
"Man, even in another life, I can't catch a break. Guess the universe just wanted to make a joke out of me."
Lyonel rose to his feet, moving slowly and deliberately. His gaze wandered to the tall, dusty bookshelf in the corner.
There was something oddly captivating about it. He reached out and pulled a small leather-bound diary from the second shelf. The edges were worn, and the pages had turned soft and yellow with age.
As he opened it, he noticed the handwriting was shaky and frail, the kind that spoke of years filled with silent suffering.
"Why can't I be like my other siblings?"
"My maids or servants, whatever nobles call them, completely ignore me."
"Today, Melviana hit me again. I tried not to cry, but I couldn't help it. Everyone laughed. Even the servants."
"If I disappeared, would anyone even notice?"
Lyonel's gaze lingered on that last line for what felt like an eternity. The ink was smudged, as if it had been written through a veil of tears.
He let out a slow breath, closing the diary with a soft thud.
"Yeah… he was broken," Lyonel murmured, his voice barely audible. "He used this diary just to tear himself down. Life really dropped me into the body of a ghost."
Lyonel leaned back in his chair, still gripping the diary in one hand. His crimson-and-blue eyes wandered up to the ceiling, a weary grin spreading across his face.
"Well, considering how much info these memories have given me…" he said, his voice a mix of amusement and resignation. "I'm definitely following two classic tropes."
He held up two fingers, ticking them off.
"First — I've reincarnated as the weak, useless kid who's destined to rise up and surprise everyone."
"Second — I've regressed but kept all my past life memories intact."
He chuckled softly, shaking his head. "Looks like I'm really diving into the cliché, huh?"
But then his smirk faded, and his eyes narrowed as deeper thoughts took hold. "But… if I reincarnated at the same time Lyonel regressed, what happened to his soul?"
Suddenly, the room felt colder. The lamp's flame flickered.
"That," he muttered, "is a mystery."
Lyonel let out a slow breath. "Well," he said, leaning back, "I'll tackle that mystery later."
He stood up, stretching his arms before lowering himself onto the chilly floor. "Since this is a fantasy world… the original magic has to be here too."
Sitting cross-legged, he closed his eyes and focused on his breathing. His mind went blank, his heartbeat slowing until—
Thump.
Something stirred within him. Not mana. Not magic. It felt denser, rawer—like life itself condensed into motion.
A faint hum vibrated through his veins.
Lyonel's eyes flew open, a grin spreading across his face. "Oh right… this must be Kensei."
He recalled fragmented lessons from the Aristeo archives, stories of Tiaan Aristeo, the founder who created Kensei from nothing.
A martial energy meant solely for assassination and survival.
Lyonel sank deeper into meditation. His vision turned inward, revealing faint silver lines beneath his skin—his body's structure glowing softly like tempered metal.
"This body…" he murmured, "it's not weak. It's… restricted."
He took a moment to really analyze the flow. His muscles felt like coiled steel, and his bones were as resilient as iron, yet they felt sealed.
The potential within him was enormous, but it was held back by something he couldn't quite see.
"A Heavenly Restricted Skeletal Body," he murmured, recalling a term from some old Aristeo notes he had buried in his mind. "A body built for strength, yet sealed off by the heavens themselves."
He remembered the slap he'd given Max earlier. "When I hit him… I felt a sting. That's got to mean this body is weak."
A smirk crept onto his face. "So that's the deal. This body isn't weak because it lacks power; it's weak because it's never been used the right way."
He clenched his fist, sensing the faint pulse of Kensei energy flickering just beneath his skin. "Looks like it's time to change that."
As the soft hum of Kensei faded away, Lyonel opened his eyes and shifted his gaze to the wall. There, neatly displayed on a wooden rack, hung a sword.
The sheath immediately caught his eye sleek, dark, and elegantly curved at just the right angle. Curiosity pulled him in, and he stepped closer.
When his fingers wrapped around the hilt, a strange warmth surged through him. The grip felt perfectly balanced almost familiar. He drew it out slowly.
Shhhk.
The blade sparkled in the afternoon light, its edge shining like liquid silver. But something about it made him frown.
"…Hold on a second," he muttered, tilting it. "This isn't just a katana."
The curvature stopped halfway, straightening out like a chokutō. Yet the guard was unmistakably modeled after a katana's tsuba, adorned with delicate engravings that screamed Eastern artistry.
A hybrid part graceful curve, part brutal straight edge.
He blinked, then let out a sigh. "How the hell does this even make sense?"
Turning it in his hand, he scoffed. "A katana-chokutō fusion? Who even thinks to make that? Whoever designed this must have been either a genius… or completely out of their mind."
He sheathed it again with a soft click, shaking his head. "Still…" he said, a small grin creeping onto his lips, "I can't deny it looks sick."
He gave it another look, admiration slipping past his sarcasm. "Tch. Even in another world, Japan finds a way to bless me."