The sky was pitch black.
A crimson moon hung like a cursed eye above a battlefield soaked in blood. The earth groaned beneath the weight of countless corpses — mangled, torn, lifeless. Rivers of blood trickled through cracked soil, steaming in the night air.
And in the middle of it all, one man stood alone.
His black hair was drenched, dyed red by blood and sweat. His ribs shattered, his flesh torn, and his sword — once feared across nations — was now broken, barely clutched in his trembling hand.
He was the last one standing.
Seven figures stood before him, unfazed by the sea of death. They were all swordmasters — paragons of divine swordsmanship. Their blades gleamed with holy aura. Their gazes were cold, resolved.
They once called him brother.
---
The **First Swordmaster** stepped forward, voice filled with judgment.
> "You committed a severe crime, Demon Sword Saint. Now, you will pay the price for your lifetime of unrighteousness."
The **Second Swordmaster** followed, tone colder than ice.
> "You should have chosen the righteous path. This is the end of your road, Velkarion."
---
Velkarion... the **Demon Sword Saint**, covered in wounds, smiled. Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth.
His gaze met theirs. No fear. Only wrath.
> "Haaaaaaaah... You bunch of cowards... How *dare* you look down on me!"
He raised his broken sword, defiant.
> "I am Velkarion — the Demon Sword Saint! You really think you stand a *chance* against me?!"
His voice cracked the silence of the night.
These weren't strangers. They were his childhood friends. They trained under the same master. They dreamed of the same future. But they had changed... they had *bowed* before the so-called gods.
---
The seven swordmasters drew their blades in unison.
And then... they charged.
Seven swords pierced through Velkarion's body at once.
The blood sprayed like a fountain, painting the air red.
Velkarion's body shuddered, but his grip never faltered. As his life ebbed, he looked at each of their faces — so familiar, yet so foreign.
His smile returned, darker than ever.
The sky darkened further, thunder rumbling across the heavens.
> "Demon Void Blade... Seventh Form—"
His broken sword began to vibrate with cursed energy.
> "**Demon Heart Explosion.**"
The swordmasters' eyes widened in horror.
> "You son of a—!"
A massive explosion erupted, engulfing everything.
The battlefield vanished in blinding black light.
---
Silence.
In an endless pitch-dark void, Velkarion floated, unconscious. His body numb. His spirit drifting.
> *Am I dead... or alive?*
Then, he felt it — a presence.
A colossal figure appeared before him, cloaked in shadows. Eyes like dying stars peered down.
Velkarion blinked. His voice cracked.
> "So... I'm dead."
He knelt weakly, bowing his head.
> "Forgive this useless disciple, Master. I couldn't do... anything."
The figure remained silent, then finally spoke.
Its voice rippled through the void, and at that moment, the skies to the east and west split open in red. The crimson moon rose again, brighter than before.
From a river of blood, a single lotus bloomed.
> "The Demon Sword Saint... shall return."
And then, the figure vanished.
> "W–Wait! Master! What's happening—?!"
---
Light.
Pain.
Noise.
Velkarion gasped and jolted, confused.
> *What is this...?! Where am I?!*
He looked around.
Strange faces.
Warm hands.
A woman's voice. A man's comforting gaze.
Tiny arms. Tiny legs.
He blinked again.
> *Am I... reborn?*
He looked up into the faces of two adults — their eyes soft with love.
> *They're... my parents...? Then this is... a second chance?*
A grin slowly formed on his infant face.
"Heh... So the Demon Sword Saint returns... after all."
Velkarion lay still in soft cloth, his body frail and unfamiliar — a baby's body.
The room was warm, the air gentle. He could hear muffled voices outside the door, soft footsteps on polished marble, the rustle of silk. Candlelight flickered from a golden chandelier overhead.
> *A noble estate…?*
As he tried to process what was happening, **a flood of memories** surged through his newborn mind.
Like water bursting through a broken dam, **his entire past life came rushing back.**
Swords. Blood. Laughter. Brotherhood. Betrayal.
---
He remembered the day his journey began — a young man, eager, naïve. He remembered swinging his first wooden sword beside the very people who would one day drive real steel through his chest.
He saw again the **smiles** of his comrades, the **firelit nights** spent telling jokes, the stupid brawls, the silent training sessions under the waterfall, freezing but unyielding.
He remembered their **vows** — to protect the world together. To remain true to their master's path. To never be seduced by the false promises of the divine.
> *And yet…*
He saw their faces when they came for him. Cold. Righteous. Distant.
Each one had **traded loyalty for favor**, **honor for wealth**, and **brotherhood for power** granted by the so-called "gods."
They wore sanctified robes. Their swords shone with holy symbols.
And they called **him** the criminal.
---
> *"Velkarion, the Demon Sword Saint. A traitor to humanity."*
> *"Your dark path ends here."*
He clenched his tiny fists, his baby nails digging into his palms.
> *They called me demon because I refused to kneel.*
> *Because I killed gods when they demanded sacrifices.*
> *Because I protected the weak instead of serving the high.*
His breath, soft and slow, now stirred with silent fury.
> *If I have returned... then this time, I will not hold back.*
> *I will burn it all — the gods, the temples, the coward kings... and those who betrayed me.*
> *They thought they destroyed me.*
> *But this world just gave me a second chance.*
---
A soft knock.
The door opened gently, and two figures stepped in.
The man was tall, with silver-threaded black hair and sharp eyes — a noble. His aura was calm, but there was strength behind his stance. The woman beside him had a kind smile and held Velkarion with gentle care.
> *My… parents?*
They leaned over the crib, speaking words he couldn't yet answer.
But he could feel the warmth of their affection.
> *I was born into nobility?*
The room matched the image — walls covered in intricate tapestries, shelves filled with books, a single ornate sword hung above the fireplace, its blade reflecting the candlelight like a sleeping predator.
> *What family is this…?*
He focused on the conversation between his parents. The names, the titles. **House Veyron.** A noble house of swordsmen in the Western Empire.
> *Tch. A noble sword family... ironic.*
> *Am I to walk the same path again? Train among the privileged, only to be betrayed again?*
But then... something sparked within him.
> *No. Not this time.*
> *This time, I will carve my own path, from the cradle to the throne of the gods.*
> *This time, I won't protect the world... I will *remake* it.*
He closed his eyes again, not from weakness, but from resolve.
---