The new governor, a man in his early thirties, wiped away his tears, though he felt a strange sense of satisfaction. At long last, his first act of vengeance was complete.
He had just executed his sworn enemy. Right here, in the very hall of justice. Tears trickled down his face.
A gentleman's revenge takes ten years, they said. Damn it... mine took thirty.
Back then, that wretch had branded me a traitor and sentenced me to death. Had it ended there, perhaps I would not have sought retribution. But the beast had gone further. Before executing me, he had slaughtered my entire family before my very eyes. One by one. My wife first. Then my children. Until only my youngest remained.
That was when I broke. That was when I confessed to being a spy from Seraburl.
When he finally confessed to the false charges of espionage, hoping to save his last child, the enemy had merely smiled in triumph. He had begged, pleaded for his youngest to be spared.
But the beast had merely scoffed, "The offspring of a traitor cannot be spared." And with that, his last child was slain before him.
As they forced his head onto the execution block, and the executioner's blade had hovered over his neck. Then, he had glimpsed the young wife and her 3-year-old son watching from the corner of the hall.
His wife! His son!
To take vengeance on a devil, one must first become one.
The next time he opened his eyes again, the world had grown three times larger than he remembered.
The people roared with approval. The corrupt governor, long a plague upon their Berlsan village, had been publicly tried and executed. And the man who had carried out the sentence? His own son—now the new governor—who stood before them, head bowed, openly repenting for the sins of his predecessor.
At first, the crowd had been silent. The stillness had been unnerving. But then, the first cheers erupted—hesitant, then swelling into a deafening wave. For over thirty years, that monster had ruled their land with an iron fist. And now, at long last, justice had been served—by none other than his own blood.
Now, the forced laborers, bound to servitude by unjust decree, had gathered in the courtyard of the government office. Their slave records were being retrieved as ordered. Soon, they would be freed.
And next…
Next, the rest of that wretched family would be judged in full. No longer would they hide behind their name and status. Every crime, every atrocity they had committed under the guise of nobility would be laid bare, and they would pay.
But then—
His eyes caught on one of the servants. A young man standing among the crowd, watching him with an expression that was… unsettling.
Who is that? A chill crept up his spine. Why is he looking at me like that?
Could it be? Could he see through him?
No—impossible. For thirty years, he had lived as the son of his enemy, careful never to reveal his true identity. He had played the part perfectly, but now, this stranger's piercing stare made him doubt himself.
Calm down, he told himself. I am the governor now, respected and revered. He's just a slave, barely twenty years old. What could he possibly know?
With a measured expression, he stepped forward and addressed the crowd.
"Have patience," he declared, his voice steady. "Those who were unjustly enslaved will soon be set free!" A thunderous cheer erupted. All except for one.
Only the young man remained silent, his eyes never leaving the governor's face.
The governor cleared his throat and pointed. "You there," he called. "Do you have a complaint?"
At his call, the young man stepped forward, emerging from the throng. And then, the governor saw them—two swords hanging at his side.
A warrior? A slave swordsman?
Suppressing his unease, the governor forced a calm tone. "Who are you?" he asked. "And why—"
The young man cut him off with a single question.
"Shouldn't I be the one asking that?"
The governor stiffened.
The crowd murmured, startled by the audacity of the slave's words. But as they turned to their leader, expecting anger, they instead saw something else—hesitation.
The young man smirked. "What I really want to know is… why you play at being a benevolent ruler—while living in a body that isn't yours."
The words sliced through him like a blade.
The governor's face twisted. "How dare a mere servant—no, a filthy slave—"
But he stopped himself too late. The crowd had heard. Their whispers turned cold.
"So he really is just like his father."
"We were fools to believe otherwise."
But the young man only chuckled.
"So you admit it," he mused. "You're not human." His lips curled into an amused grin. "Well, I suppose I should thank you."
Reality snapped back into place.
With a swift motion, the governor reached for his long sword mounted nearby. The gathered servants recoiled in fear as the steel blade hissed free, its sinister aura filling the air.
The young man, unfazed, shifted his grip—from the hilt of his bronze gladius to the cold steel of his other blade.
The governor narrowed his eyes.
No aura? No presence of malice?
A low whisper escaped his lips. "So… you're not like me after all." He exhaled. "Fool. If you had stayed silent…"
In a flash, he lunged.
His blade carved through the air toward the young warrior's throat. For a brief, fleeting instant, he thought he had won.
But then—
A steel blade met his own, stopping his strike inches from the boy's neck.
The young warrior was already moving—his sword shifting, his aim locking onto the governor's throat.
Impossible.
The governor's instincts screamed. He barely managed to deflect the blow and counter. But—
The boy already knew.
His blade was waiting, poised for the opening.
The two clashed.
The governor gritted his teeth. Damn it! It's been thirty years since I last wielded a sword in true combat properly. His body no longer moved as it once had.
And then—he saw it.
The young warrior's eyes.
He's holding back.
The young man's strikes were precise and effortless, as if he were toying with the governor.
A dark fury ignited within him. How dare he? He was once the greatest swordsman of Samul Gaya. And now, this boy pitied him?
His strikes steadied, his confidence surged. His blade grew sharper, more controlled. Noticing the shift, the young warrior abruptly leapt back—five full paces.
A quiet chuckle escaped his lips. "The Sea Wave Sword Technique…"
The governor froze. The young man sheathed his steel blade and drew the other—the bronze gladius.
"A disciple of King Suro's swordsmanship…" the youth murmured. His expression darkened. "And yet, you let yourself become this—a wraith, stealing the lives of others."
The governor's breath caught.
"You… You know this technique?"
The young man simply shook his head.
"Ask Yama, the King of Hell, when you see him." he said. "You'll be serving him soon enough."
A golden light flared from his blade.
The governor's pulse quickened.
Perhaps… this was fate.
Perhaps even the gods had decided his time was up.
But if so—he would not go quietly.
With his final breath, he invoked his strongest technique—the Heaven-Cleaving Strike.
He charged.
The young warrior sidestepped, dodging by mere inches.
And then, in a single fluid motion, he twisted, driving his glowing blade forward.
"Cleansed!"
The golden arc of his sword cleaved through the air—
And the governor's body. Dark energy howled, unraveling. A wretched soul tore free from its stolen vessel, dissipating into the void.