Well… I was nervous.
No, scratch that—I was terrified. This was my first time ever sitting down to eat with nobles. My hands wouldn't stop fidgeting, my legs felt like jelly, and this ridiculous attire wasn't helping.
"To be honest," I muttered under my breath, staring at my reflection in the polished silver tray, "I look stupid. Why do I have to wear something like this? I look more like a clown than some badass medieval swordsman…"
The fabric was stiff, heavy, and layered with way too many frills. If this was considered stylish in this world, then nobles clearly had no sense of comfort—or shame.
And to make things worse, I couldn't stop thinking: What if I mess up?
I mean, setting and dining with nobles is nerve-wracking enough, but what if I did something stupid? Like… eating the wrong dish first, holding the fork wrong, or spilling soup all over myself? I didn't even know if their dining etiquette was the same as in my old world. What if I got executed for using the wrong spoon?!
I swallowed hard, my imagination running wild.
Still… another thought crept in. Amidst all the panic and self-loathing, I couldn't help but feel a spark of curiosity.
Miss Mariana.
I'd only heard her name. I knew she was Frederick's younger sister, the one who had lost her parents just like him. But what kind of person was she now? Cold and distant like her brother? Gentle and soft-spoken? Or maybe… someone completely different?
My heart thumped harder than it should have.
"Calm down," I whispered to myself, tugging at the stupid collar choking me. "Don't screw this up. Don't look like a bum. And for the love of God, don't die from table manners."
The butler's voice broke my thoughts like a blade through silence."It's time. Sir Frederick and Lady Mariana are waiting."
My throat went dry."…I'm dead."
The clinking of silverware echoed softly in the massive hall. Every cut of meat, every sip of wine felt amplified, like even the air itself was listening.
Sir Frederick finally set down his knife. His gaze sharpened, pinning me in place.
"So, Patrick," he began in a calm, steady tone. "Tell me. Where exactly are you from?"
Shit. Here it comes—the interrogation.
My hand trembled slightly as I set my fork down. "Ah… I come from a small, insignificant town far from here. A place so dull, I doubt even the maps bother to mark it."
His eyes narrowed slightly, as if measuring the truth of my words. "Is that so? And yet you hold a sword with… unusual instinct."
I froze. My throat went dry.
Before I could answer, Lady Mariana scoffed lightly. She didn't even bother hiding her disdain. "Instinct? Please, brother. He's just a commoner who got lucky with a few swings."
I flinched at her words. Ouch. Right in the pride.
But Frederick ignored her jab. His attention never left me. "Luck or not, I've heard reports. You've been seen copying sword techniques you shouldn't even know. That alone requires talent—or recklessness."
"…I-It was just imagination," I stammered. "I watched others and tried to copy them. I didn't mean any harm."
Mariana's spoon clattered softly against her plate. She leaned her cheek against her hand, staring at me with clear annoyance. "Unbelievable. Do you not understand what it means to copy another's style in this world? Men have been killed for less. Yet here you are, alive, sitting at this table, acting as if it's nothing."
I wanted to melt into the chair. "I-I really didn't know…"
Her lips curled. "Ignorance isn't an excuse."
Great. She really hates me.
But then Frederick lifted his hand slightly, silencing her. His eyes—cold, unreadable—locked with mine.
"Patrick. What is it you seek?"
The question froze me completely. Not who are you, not why are you here, but what do you seek.
I swallowed hard. My thoughts scattered. What do I even say? My survival? A peaceful life? Strength? To not die like an extra in someone else's story?
My mouth opened, but no words came out. The weight of his gaze crushed every excuse before I could form it.
Finally, I managed a weak answer. "…To live."
The hall fell silent.
Frederick leaned back slightly, his expression unreadable. Mariana's eyes flicked toward me again, but this time—just for a split second—I thought I saw curiosity beneath the annoyance.
"…To live, huh?" Frederick murmured, as if testing the words on his tongue. Then, for the first time all evening, he gave the faintest of smiles.
"Interesting."
I didn't know if that was a good thing—or the worst thing possible.
After the maids left, silence filled the room again. The only sound was the faint crackle of the candle on the desk. I dropped the heavy bag onto the bed, excitement bubbling in my chest.
My stuff… my real stuff.
I carefully pulled everything out, laying them in order like treasures from a lost past. My sword—restored so cleanly it almost looked new. My repaired chainmail, the dents and cuts smoothed out, the leather straps polished. The pair of daggers gleamed with a sharp edge, reflecting the candlelight like hungry teeth. And then—
A necklace.
Not silver, but copper. Faded, scratched, but sturdy. Hanging from it was a small plate shaped like a dog tag.
I held it close. Etched on the surface was a single word:
[Rank: C]
"…C-Rank… huh."
I couldn't stop the small grin that tugged at my lips. It wasn't the lowest rank. Not by far. Average mercenaries were D, sometimes even E. To already stand at C? I felt a strange sense of pride well up in me. At least I wasn't a complete nobody.
Then came the paper.
A folded identification parchment—something every mercenary carried. My hands trembled a little as I opened it, reading the neatly written lines.
[Identification Record]Name: PatrickAge: 34Origin: Wavering ValleyStatus: SingleOccupation: Mercenary (Rank C)Class: SwordsmanAbility: — Copy
My eyes widened. I read it twice. Thrice.
"Wait… Copy?" I muttered aloud, the word almost slipping from my lips with disbelief.
The more I stared, the more it sank in. Copy. That was my ability? Just one word, yet endless possibilities exploded in my head.
Copy what? Movements? Skills? Techniques? Weapons? Magic?
My breath quickened as a realization slammed into me.
Earlier—when I was swinging my sword, repeating the moves I'd seen… that feeling. The way my body naturally flowed, as if I had practiced it for years. The instinctive precision that shouldn't have been possible.
It wasn't talent.
It was my ability.
I can copy.
Not just mimic, not just imitate—I can learn perfectly.
Swordsmanship, martial arts, tactics—hell, maybe even magic. If I see it once, twice, thrice… it's mine. No boundaries. No limits.
I clutched the dog tag so tightly it dug into my palm, but I didn't care. My heart pounded like a war drum.
"This… this is broken."
The thought made me laugh. A small chuckle at first, then louder, as if the truth itself was too ridiculous to hold in.
I wasn't some weak nobody anymore. No, I had the one ability every warrior, every mage, every noble would kill for.
I threw myself back onto the bed, staring at the ceiling, unable to stop the wide grin stretching across my face.
"I'm… overpowered," I whispered, the words tasting sweet.
And for the first time since coming into this world, I didn't feel fear.
I felt unstoppable.
I sat on the edge of the bed, staring at the piece of paper in my hand. Copy.
How the hell was I supposed to use it? There was no "activate" command, no glowing blue screen telling me what to do, no tutorial window like in games. Just that single word burned into my identity.
I thought back to the training ground. What did I do back then? I wasn't trying to be flashy—I just… imagined. I pictured that sword fight between Sir Frederick and the assassin. Every strike, every block, every step.
That duel wasn't just a fight. It was art. Frederick's blade was merciless, sharp enough to carve through air itself, while the assassin's daggers danced like twin vipers, weaving, stabbing, retreating, slashing. One killed with precision, the other with speed.
My heart pounded. If I can copy Frederick's technique… then why not that assassin's?
The idea made my blood boil with excitement.
I closed my eyes. Darkness swallowed me whole. Then, like a movie on replay, the memory played out—every flicker of movement, every strike of steel. I watched. I studied. I copied.
The assassin darted forward. My legs moved. He slashed low. My wrist followed. He weaved past Frederick's strike—I mirrored it, the daggers dancing in my grip.
And then—steel clashed.
I wasn't just observing anymore. I was there, fighting Sir Frederick in that dreamlike battlefield. His sword came down on me with merciless weight, and I raised the daggers to parry. Sparks flew. My lungs burned as I dodged, as I slashed, as I struggled to keep up with his killing intent.
The fight felt so real, my body moved on instinct alone. And yet—
Shhk!
The blade pierced my chest. Darkness.
I died.
Then it reset.
Again and again, I threw myself at him. Fifty-two times I fell. My neck cut. My heart pierced. My ribs shattered. Again and again.
And then—finally—daggers flashed in my hands. A feint to the left, a swift stab into his neck, and a follow-up slash across his chest.
Blood sprayed.
Sir Frederick fell.
I won.
I gasped, snapping awake. My whole body was drenched in sweat, my sheets clinging to me. The room stank of exhaustion, my lungs pulling for air. But outside the window, dawn was breaking.
I rubbed my eyes, stunned. That felt like… days. Weeks of training. But when I glanced at the clock, only eight hours had passed.
And I wasn't even tired. My body wasn't broken or bruised. In fact, I felt… lighter. Relaxed. Like meditation had cleansed me.
A shiver of excitement ran through me.
So that's what "Copy" was. Not just mimicking. Not just remembering. It was… instant training. As long as I could visualize it, as long as I closed my eyes and imagined, I could train endlessly inside my own mind. Fail, die, repeat—until I got it right.
Overpowered. Broken. Insane.
I clenched my fist, forcing myself to calm down. "Not yet… not too much. If they see me suddenly moving like that assassin, they'll think I'm one of them…"
Better to keep this skill assassin hidden. For now, my ability would be my greatest secret.
I peeled off the sweat-soaked shirt, grimacing. "I stink."
Time for a bath.
Our blades met with a ringing clang, the vibration traveling up my arm. I didn't use Frederick's copied technique right away. Instead, I relied on instinct—the raw reflexes of my body moving on its own, every dodge, every swing guided by something deep inside me.
But the difference in skill was too obvious. Frederick's swordsmanship was like a flowing river, calm and precise, while mine was a storm—wild, unrefined, barely holding together. Each time our blades clashed, my arms shook. Each time I stepped back, I felt the pressure of his strikes threaten to break through.
Frederick's voice cut through the ringing of steel."It's kind of disappointing, you know," he said coolly, his eyes narrowing. "We've already seen you try to copy my sword technique in the past. Use it. I want to see it with my own eyes."
Those words hit me like a spark to dry tinder.
He was testing me—not just as a mercenary, but as something more. He knew.
My grip tightened. My chest burned with determination. Fine. You want to see it? Then I'll show you everything I've got.
I exhaled slowly, and then… shifted.
My stance changed, my posture lowered, my movements suddenly calm, calculated. The nervous tension in my body melted away. Instead of wild slashes, I held my blade in the same relaxed grip Frederick had used. My aura shifted so sharply that even Sir Albert, watching silently nearby, stiffened in surprise.
Frederick's brows lifted slightly.
Then I lunged.
Steel rang as our swords clashed again, but this time it was different. My movements weren't desperate—they were measured. Big swings, sudden thrusts, precise parries. Each exchange mirrored Frederick's own style, so much so that his expression finally broke into something more than calm composure. Shock.
He smirked. "Interesting. Very interesting."
I caught his blade mid-swing, twisting and pushing him back with a parry so clean even I was stunned. His eyes gleamed."…It feels like I'm dueling my own doppelgänger."
He laughed then, short and sharp, before his entire demeanor shifted. The easygoing noble vanished. The air grew heavier, sharper, as though a blade itself hung above me. His next swing carried a weight that made my knees nearly buckle.
I staggered back, panting hard. Sweat dripped down my cheek. My arms felt like lead. He wasn't serious before?!
Now he was.
Each strike came faster, harder. My copied stance let me parry and dodge just barely, but I was being pushed to the limit. My breaths came ragged, my muscles screamed, and still he pressed forward.
"You've got talent," Frederick said, his strikes relentless. "But talent alone won't win against experience."
I grit my teeth, blocking another blow that nearly tore the sword from my hands. My heart thundered. My legs shook.
Damn it… if this is him holding back, then what is he like when he's truly serious?
Frederick shifted into the stance I had copied earlier.
But this time… his sword glowed. A pure, blinding light, humming with power. My jaw dropped. Is this… a medieval lightsaber?
I raised my own sword, ready to defend.
Then—flash! My blade split clean in two.
Before I could react, his glowing sword hovered at my neck. Calm. Deadly.
"That… was a great sparring," he said.
My legs gave out. Panting, barely holding myself up, I felt like I had just survived a storm of light and steel. He's like… a Jedi, I thought, awe-struck and terrified.
Then, unexpectedly, he reached out. His hand gripped my arm, steadying me. That same smile—gentle, almost amused—tugged at his lips."Wait… unique ability you have," he murmured, like he had just uncovered a hidden secret.
I almost stumbled. "Th-thank you, sir. That was… incredible." I bowed awkwardly. "I'm sorry for cutting your newly repaired sword. I have an old one I don't use… I can give it to you."
His eyes flicked to me, sharp yet unreadable. "Follow me. To my office."
The office was grand, yet ordered. Sunlight gleamed off the rare weapons lined along the walls.
"You're talented," Frederick said, his voice calm but piercing. "To imitate a technique you've only seen for a few days… impressive. I wanted to see it with my own eyes. I'd like you to stay, train here… as my sparring partner."
My heart skipped. I hesitated. "I… I appreciate it, sir. But I want to travel. See this world. Adventure." I didn't say I had been reincarnated—just that I wanted freedom.
Frederick's gaze lingered on me a moment. Then he glanced at Sir Albert. The head butler stepped forward, wary. Frederick's silent command was enough.
Albert pulled a sword from behind a hidden panel in the wall and handed it to me.
"This is a unique sword," Albert said, still cautious. "Take care of it."
I held it in my hands. Perfect balance, hum of hidden potential. My chest swelled. "Yes, sir."
Frederick's smile returned, calm and enigmatic. "You are free to leave. But first, report to the Mercenary Office. Give this envelope to the head office."
As I left, Albert's deep voice cut through the hallway, slow and deliberate."What are you plotting… Sir? And why did you let him see your ability? He can copy techniques… even yours! And you gave him a sword worth thousands of gold!"
Frederick chuckled softly, eyes gleaming like steel in the sun."I was curious," he said. "Even if he can copy my skill, he cannot wield it properly without training… or a proper sword. Perhaps one day our paths will cross again—ally… or enemy. And I look forward to that day."
Albert's brows twitched, and then he laughed—deep, knowing, like a storm rolling over distant mountains."So… you're planning ahead, Fred," he said.
Frederick's smile remained calm, sharp, almost teasing."Of course," he replied.
Both of them laughed quietly, a rare, tense moment of camaraderie.
That smile lingered in my mind, dangerous and knowing—a spark of legend.A warning. A promise.And maybe… the foreshadowing of battles yet to come.