From the day I was born, I was praised for having so-called 'god-level talent.' In this world, talent is everything—no one spares a thought for mere hard work. I won't complain; it has its benefits. But at times, it's nothing but a burden, drawing far too much unnecessary attention my way.
Ah, where are my manners? My name is Adrian Blackthorn, of the illustrious Blackthorn family—renowned across the continent for our unmatched mastery of both swordsmanship and magic.
Honestly, I have so much talent that I feel empty inside. I'm a genius born once in a million years. To some, it may sound like arrogance or a passing boast—but it's the truth.
People like to say the truly talented can't be killed—not even by a god. Yet here I am, speaking these words after being killed by a being so terrifying, not a god but still terrifying.
I feel like shit. I've got my own list of suspects, but what good are they to me now? The dead can't take revenge on the ones who killed them, right?
To avoid confusion, I'd like to start from the very beginning—where it all truly began.
The day before my death.
I was preparing to leave for the Elven Kingdom at my father's request—Cassian Blackthorn himself. Officially, it was a diplomatic visit. In truth, I'd been sent to investigate a cult that had been running rampant across the continent.
The Diabolos Cult. They had been leaving destruction in their wake wherever they appeared. Their movements hinted at something far bigger, though we couldn't quite figure out what. One thing was clear, however—their plans were not for the good of anyone. I mean, it's a cult, after all.
I rode in a Blackthorn carriage, black with hints of dark purple, designed with intricate vines bristling with sharp thorns. Inside, it was pristine white and surprisingly beautiful. I wore simple light armor beneath a black coat with a hood, a sword strapped to my hip. I must have looked every bit the part of a cool mercenary.
I arrived at the Elven Kingdom and requested an audience with King Kerala. He welcomed me warmly and invited me to a banquet scheduled for the following day. I kept quiet about the cult—it was, after all, a Pendragon problem.
The next day, I attended the banquet, partaking in it and enjoying food and the festivities. Once it concluded, I set out to track the cult and soon found them near the outskirts of Mana Island, a place teeming with raw mana.
They'd set up an altar and drawn magic circles around the area, thinking it would keep people like me from noticing. Foolish, really—after all, I'm Adrian Blackthorn, a god-level talent.
I struck with ferocious speed, taking down the two guards that were guar6the front side of the altar in an instant. I then appeared in front of the other two on my left and cut their heads clean off. The remaining two tried to flee, clearly terrified—but let me remind you once more: I'm Adrian Blackthorn, a god-level talent.
I leapt at the remaining two and cleaved them in half. Then I turned to the circle at the altar. Six Elven women and children lay there—dead. Seems like they'd been used as sacrifices but what for.
I dropped onto a huge rock and watched them with curious eyes. "Please—finish what you were doing," I said, my tone casual.
"Hey! You fucking with us? We'll kill you!" one of them barked, sword raised.
Four of them rushed at me, shouting, "You think you'll win just because you slaughtered our weak comrades? You'll lose, fucker!"
Nah, I'd win
"DIE!!" one of them exclaimed and then a black mist erupted from all four of them and their mana had increased by 3.
"Hah — your efforts are futile. It's you who should die," I said, fury flashing in my eyes.
Blackthorn Technique — Chapter I: Lightning Severance.
In that instant, blue lightning slammed into the earth with blinding force. The energy ripped outward; when the light died, the four attackers lay motionless—their armor shattered and bodies broken, smoke curling where they had stood.
I felt proud of what was infront of me. It was living proof of my god level talent.
Idiots what were you doing just dying like bugs. Anyways it seems taken care of even though I know this isn't their complete self, these weren't the complete members of the cult.
I couldn't help but feel proud of the scene before me. It was living proof of my god-level talent.
"Idiots," I muttered. "What were you even doing—dying like bugs?"
Still, I knew this was only a fraction of the real threat. These weren't the full members of the cult, just scraps of the whole. But why were they so weak.
On my way back to the Elven city, it struck. The ambush came without warning, a crushing presence descending so fast my instincts screamed before my mind could even catch up. Whatever it was… it was stronger than me. Far stronger.
At the time, I stood at the Archon Stage—the peak of the Transcendent Stages, one step away from the Mythic Stages. Yet in that moment, I felt powerless.
I had expected maybe ten people at most—after all, my talent was unrivaled. But to my surprise, there was only one man. He hovered in midair, his hair a red so deep it looked dyed in blood, his eyes darker than night and far more terrifying.
"You dare disturb my plans and think you'll leave alive?" he said, his voice dripping with malice.
Then it hit. Oppressive pressure crashed down, killing intent so thick it painted the daytime sky in shades of crimson.
The pressure slammed into me like a mountain crashing down. My lungs seized, my chest tightening as though invisible hands were squeezing the life out of me. My knees threatened to buckle, but I forced myself to stand tall. I was Adrian Blackthorn—god-level talent, heir of the Blackthorn family. I refused to show weakness, even if my body screamed otherwise.
Each breath felt like inhaling molten iron. My vision blurred, crimson bleeding into the edges of the world. The sky itself seemed to pulse with the man's killing intent, the sun choked behind a blood-red haze. My instincts howled at me to run, yet my pride chained me in place.
This man wasn't just strong—he was something beyond my comprehension. Every fiber of my being knew it. The way he looked at me, with those abyssal eyes, was as if he were already dissecting my corpse in his mind.
My hand tightened around my sword hilt, knuckles pale, sweat trickling down my brow. I had conquered countless foes, slain men and beasts alike, but in that moment, for the first time in years, I felt fear.
And he hadn't even moved yet.
"Arghhh—FUCK YOU!!!" I roared, blood already dripping from the corner of my mouth. To think… mere killing intent could make me bleed.
The man vanished. A heartbeat later, agony exploded in my chest. I staggered, looking down to see a gaping hole where my heart should have been.
When I raised my eyes, he was standing before me, lips curled into a grin. Blood dripped from his right hand, and in his palm… was my heart, still beating.
CRUNCH!!
He crushed it with deliberate slowness, smiling all the while. My knees buckled, strength fleeing my body like water spilling from a shattered cup.
"Why… why would you do that?" I rasped, voice breaking. "What did I ever do to you…?"
My vision dimmed, the world fading into shadow. His face was the last thing I saw—that cruel smile, etched into my mind.
Here's a tightened, angrier version that keeps your voice and vow intact:
I wonder—was it my god-level talent that got me killed? This cursed gift is what put a target on my back. I fucking hate it. I'm done playing the smiling jester with a miracle birthright. If I'm ever reborn, I swear on whatever's left of me: I will find the ones who did this and cleave them all to pieces.
Then everything went pitch black. I heard my name called out, a chime rang, and a dark‑blue text floated before me. 'What the hell is this…?' I croaked.
[Welcome Administrator]
[Would you like to start over]
[Y/N]
I was stunned, but I hit 'Yes' on instinct—because the only thing in my head was vengeance: find those who killed me and tear them apart. Fuck them up beyond repair.
I woke to cold air pressing against my chest—an empty, icy hollowness where pain had been. For a stunned second I lay there, ears ringing with the ghost of that cruel crunch. Then reality snapped: I threw back the covers and vaulted out of the king‑size bed.
A mirror hung on the far wall. I crossed the room in three strides and nearly laughed out loud when I saw my reflection.
Younger. Far younger. The lines I'd earned in a life already ripped away; the face staring back at me was smooth, fierce, and hungry. Silver hair—still there—shimmered at a fuller, livelier sheen. My hands were steady. My chest felt cold but whole.
"Oh—ha. I've regressed," I breathed, laughter bubbling up, half relief, half mad joy. "Thank you… whoever blessed me with this."
A chime rang, thin and impossibly calm, and a dark-blue line of text unfurled in the air before me like a verdict.
You have regressed with your god‑level talent. Talent has been amplified — growth rate increased.
My heart—new, clumsy, and pounding—kicked against my ribs. A grin split my face, ugly and beautiful.
"I will kill them all," I said, voice low and steady, each word a promise carved into the room.
And that's how it all unfolded and it will keep unfolding.