The morning air bit like a wolf's fangs—sharp and merciless. Dew froze on the edges of grass blades, turning into clear crystals that shimmered beneath the reluctant light of a winter sun.
*Thwack—thwack—thwack.*
The sound echoed through the small training yard nestled within the building. A child, no older than twelve, swung a wooden sword repeatedly, his body moving with the persistence of a machine, though his breath hitched in the frigid air.
"Four hundred twenty-eight," he muttered, breath steaming from his lips like smoke from smoldering coals. He held back his shivers, forcing his feet to stay rooted to the frozen ground.
His shoulder-length red hair reflected the morning light like embers still burning. A small crimson mark gleamed on his pale forehead—almost like a brand of fire that refused to die in the snow. His bare chest showed little muscle, but every movement carried the weight of discipline etched deeper than flesh.
"Four hundred thirty."
The wind blew again, slapping his skin with the unforgiving touch of winter. But the boy didn't stop.
Swing after swing, the sound of wood cutting through air continued. His hands, gripping the wooden hilt, were turning red—tinged with blue at the fingertips. But he did not yield.
"Four hundred eighty-three... four hundred eighty-four..."
His stance wavered. He bit his lip to stifle a cry. This was the difference: his body was still that of a child, but the fire in his eyes was far too old for his age.
"Four hundred ninety-nine..."
Beads of sweat fell onto the frozen ground, evaporating slowly. He raised his sword for the final strike, and though his voice was hoarse and weak, it still rang with determination.
"Five hundred."
The swing wasn't perfect. It wasn't as fast as the first, nor as strong as the two-hundredth. But it was done. And in the silence that followed, he stood tall. Panting, freezing, but standing.
In a world that measured worth by blood and lineage, the boy had nothing—except will.
He lowered his sword slowly, letting his knees drop to the ground. His hands clutched the snow now covering the grass, then squeezed it. The cold stung his skin, pierced through to his bones, but he accepted it without complaint.
"...Again," he whispered, though his breath was nearly gone.
The creak of a wooden door echoed from the side of the building. But he didn't turn. He knew who it was, and he knew what they would say.
"Medici, that's enough."
The voice belonged to an older man—heavy, but not harsh. A voice that understood when to command and when to understand.
The boy, Medici, did not answer. His glowing red eyes stared blankly ahead—at the snow, at the frozen air, at a world that had yet to give him a place. His small hand gripped the wooden sword once more.
"If I stop moving... my flame will die"
The fire mark on his forehead flickered faintly—like a candle flame defying a storm. But it was enough. As long as his flame hadn't died, he would keep swinging.
"Your sister will be back soon."
The voice echoed again—gentle yet firm—spoken by the middle-aged man standing beneath the building's eaves, shielding himself from the icy dew.
"Half an hour more," Medici replied without turning. His breath was still heavy, but he had resumed swinging his sword. Strike five hundred and one. Five hundred and two.
"If she sees you like this—"
"She'll scold me. Drag me inside. Force me to rest," Medici cut in. "But she won't always be here. And when she leaves again… I need to be able to stand on my own."
The man sighed. He was well past middle age, and the scars that marked his hands showed he was more than a mere guard or servant. Once, perhaps, a warrior—or something more. But now, he could only watch the boy sweat and shiver in the heart of winter.
"You don't need to push yourself this hard, Medici."
"I know," Medici answered. His wooden sword moved slower now, but still steady. "But if I don't… no one else will."
The man stared at him for a long while. His eyes held more than sympathy. As if, in the boy, he saw a shadow of his former self—once fierce, now only memory.
"But this still isn't enough," Medici continued, his tone shifting, bitter laughter wrapped beneath his breath. "If I'm only this strong… how could I ever join the Templars?"
He lowered his head, staring at his hands, red from cold and training. His fingers were stiff, but he still gripped the sword tightly. "It's ironic, isn't it? I was born with a family stigmata. And yet, my control over Honkai energy doesn't even meet the academy's minimum."
The stigmata was real—the flame mark on his forehead proved it. But it wasn't enough. It never had been.
"My sister is a genius. Born with the stigmata, mastered her energy field by the age of eleven. And me?" He chuckled bitterly, at himself. "I awakened the family's stigmata… and the only thing that ignited was shame."
It was unacceptable. After all, awakening a stigmata should have naturally granted Honkai control. And even if it didn't, rigorous training was supposed to improve it. So why… why wasn't it working for him?
But that wasn't the full truth behind his frustration.
He had been reincarnated into this world.
Yes—he was that kind of reincarnator. And how could a reincarnator not have ambition?
After all, this world—
This world was once just a game to him—a collection of missions, cutscenes, and stats. But now? Now it was real. His breath was its air. The snow he gripped wasn't a rendered texture—it was cold, heavy, and alive.
And most confusing of all… this world didn't quite match what he remembered.
Schicksal—
It was supposed to be founded by three great families: Kaslana, Apocalypse, and Schariac. But in this world, there were four. Celest—a mysterious family that never existed in canon.
Could it be… someone else like him came before? A senior reincarnator, who reshaped history with their own choices and struggles against the Honkai?
He didn't know. But there were too many discrepancies to ignore.
The Templars—
A specialized order of gifted men who wielded Honkai energy. They didn't exist in the original version. Wasn't this civilization supposed to be dominated by women? The Valkyries? Weren't they the ones who inherited Dr. Mei's genetic modifications before her demise?
Medici knew the story well.
Dr. Mei, a scientist of the previous era, died from exhaustion before she could perfect the genetic mod for males. As a result, only women could stably awaken stigmata. Only women could resist Honkai.
But in this world?
Since the earliest days of Schicksal, elite male teams had existed. And in the historical documents he had studied, the ratio of stigmata bearers between men and women appeared balanced. No one seemed to find that strange.
What happened to this world?
'The Schariac family… descended from Lucifer Schariac and Elysia Schariac?' he had read this history in disbelief at the time.
Lucifer? Who was that? No such character ever existed in canon.
And Elysia… she wasn't supposed to have descendants. In the original lore, she was a Flame-Chaser of pure heart, who sacrificed everything for civilization. But here, she was recorded as the matriarch of one of the most powerful families.
And who was Hana Celest—his own ancestor—celebrated in historical records as a living legend? Her name didn't appear in any lore he once knew. But now, relics of her legacy were scattered across every Schicksal branch.
Why had the Schariac family become the dominant pillar in Schicksal's structure—far surpassing even Kaslana, once the symbol of military might?
'Because this history isn't yours, Medici,' he reminded himself. 'This world isn't just a version of the game you played. It's real… and it's walking its own path.'
He didn't know who rewrote this world.
But he wouldn't let himself be a background character.
That was his stubbornness.
He refused to be ordinary in this life.
If he couldn't become the strongest in one field, then he would master them all.
Swordsmanship was just the beginning.
But he had trained in spear as well—a heavy weapon, yet graceful in skilled hands. His movements flowed like water, but struck with the force of a lightning storm.
Archery? He learned it under one of the Celest instructors—calibrating breath, draw, and release to strike within a second with deadly precision.
Daggers? He trained in them because raw power meant nothing up close. Speed, stealth, and precision mattered more. Daggers were weapons of traitors—but sometimes, betrayal was survival.
He had also studied countless combat arts: hand-to-hand, grappling, energy flow manipulation. He wasn't a prodigy like his sister, but he learned from everyone willing to teach him—piecing together his own style from fragments.
Celest.
Born from Flame, We Bleed Silver, For Illuminating Civilization.
"Well… I suppose it suits me," he whispered.
He would carve his own path.
And for that—he would keep swinging.
One. Two. Three...
The flame on his forehead may be small. But in this storm and frost, he would keep it burning—and let it consume everything.
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