This was his world. A sophisticated realm built upon the bedrock of magic, where the "Aura Knights" reigned supreme. They were warriors who wielded swords in an advanced society, granted abilities by their aura that transcended the limits of ordinary mortals.
And he stood at their apex... "Laurent Vazir," Supreme Commander of the Aura Knights, Shield of the King, the Empire's most skilled swordsman, and the greatest aura manipulator in history.
Yet... all of that was now mere history.
He had become naught but an old man nearing ninety. With a snowy white beard and hair, and wrinkles deeply furrowed into his face, he lay upon his deathbed. He was encumbered on all sides by life support devices that barely allowed him to cling to life until that very moment.
He wished only that he had fallen upon a field of battle; at the very least, it would have been an honorable death. He wished he had been the King himself, rather than a subordinate executing orders throughout his entire existence. These were his ruminations in his final moments: a bitter regret for a life spent as a tool, utterly void of true purpose.
Suddenly, the devices in every corner began emitting a relentless, harrowing blare, and the doctors surrounded him in panic. He felt his consciousness gradually fading.
Internally, he whispered: "So... this is the end."
He descended into a vast darkness, a cold void completely devoid of sensation...
...Only to open his eyes once more.
Internally, he questioned: "Has my time not yet arrived? Or is this something else?"
Yet, something was amiss. Instead of opening his eyes to the sterile white ceiling of the resuscitation room, he beheld an intricately carved wooden ceiling, appearing as if it were from the Middle Ages. Thoughts began to race wildly within his mind; was this some form of illusion?
He turned his head slowly, only to be met with further astonishment. He was not in a hospital. He was in a room with rugged stone walls adorned with faded tapestries. He lay upon a massive wooden bed, shrouded by thick velvet curtains.
In one corner, he observed antique furniture and books carelessly strewn upon the floor, and in another corner, a fireplace choked with cold ash. Everything appeared unfamiliar. Amidst it all, he noted the thick layers of dust and the palpable neglect that cloaked the chamber, as though it had been shunned and forgotten for weeks, or perhaps months.
Dazed, he asked himself: "Am I hallucinating?"
He raised his hand to examine it. Instead of finding his gnarled old hand, riddled with medical tubes, he beheld a small, smooth, and frail hand... a child's hand that had never so much as gripped a sword.
He sprang from the bed and rushed towards a mirror positioned above an ornate bureau in a corner of the room.
He gazed at his reflection.
It was not the countenance of an old man.
It was the face of a nine-year-old child, with pitch-black hair, a small scar just above his nose, and a body that was gaunt and utterly feeble. He began to frantically touch his face, seeking confirmation that this was not an illusion.
Suddenly... a searing, white-hot pain shot through his head, as though a lightning bolt had pierced his skull. He collapsed to the floor on his knees, gasping for air, as a tumultuous torrent of memories ravaged his mind.
Memories of a child shunned by all.
A child despised and weak.
For a fleeting moment, he began to grasp the reality of the situation.
He realized he was no longer "Laurent Vazir," the Shield of the King and the Commander of the Aura Swordsmen.
He was now "Arian Oswald," the hated illegitimate son of the formidable "Oswald" family—the noble house that ruled "Northgard" Province in the King's name. A family that believed solely in absolute might, where the heir was not determined by birth order, but by worthiness.
He stood up slowly, his hand still pressing against his head from the intensity of the headache, attempting to compose his breathing.
He pondered calmly: "Is this reincarnation? Or transmigration of the soul?"
He made his way to the room's window. It was obvious that it had not been opened in months, a testament to the introverted and isolated disposition of the former "Arian."
He forced the two wooden shutters open with difficulty, allowing a cold gust of wind to blast against his face, carrying with it the undeniable truth.
"Northgard" Province stretched out before him: a vast, unforgiving expanse on the banks of a raging river, protected by gargantuan, pitch-black walls constructed from solid Nordic stone.
A cold look of astonishment settled upon his features.
"So, I am now in the body of a child from a noble family in a medieval setting... who would believe this?"
He began to pace slowly within the room, attempting to process his condition.
The first thing he noted was his emaciated body. It was not merely a structural weakness; it appeared as though he were afflicted with a terminal illness.
He attempted to summon the flow of aura within him. His aura was pitifully weak, a condition to be expected of a child. But the primary issue lay elsewhere.
Something malicious was obstructing its flow.
Something was slowly tearing apart this body's vital organs from within.
He returned to the bed and sat cross-legged. He closed his eyes, and leveraging his expertise as the preeminent aura manipulator of his previous life, he was able to examine the energy pathways within his body.
It was not a disease...
It was a toxin of a particularly vicious nature.
For four continuous hours, he remained in that exact position. Beaded droplets of cold sweat poured from his brow as he wrestled with the pain of tearing veins, striving to concentrate his meager energy to absorb the poison and drive it away from his heart.
Finally, he opened his eyes, took a deep breath, and spoke in a faint voice laden with fatigue:
"The flow of aura is better now... someone was attempting to kill this child very slowly by means of poison. It seems I am despised by everyone here. If my current consciousness has taken root in Arian's body, then where has his own consciousness gone?"
He shook his head, brushing those thoughts aside.
"I must not dwell overmuch on matters I cannot currently resolve. Let us focus on our present circumstances."
A sword mounted upon the room's wooden wall caught his attention. He took it down and wiped the accumulated dust from its black scabbard.
"This sword... was a gift from this boy's deceased mother."
He recalled that his mother had been naught but a mere handmaid to the Lord of the house.
He exhaled a sigh that carried a trace of cold pity.
"What a wretched existence."
He drew the sword from its sheath.
It felt heavy in those slender arms, yet he began to test its balance.
His movements were fluid, swift, and flawless—a result to be expected, given the expertise etched into his very mind.
But after only a few seconds, he ceased.
He looked down at his trembling hand, which gripped the hilt feebly.
"This is the extent of what I can achieve with this body at present... I must not push it beyond its capacity. I must commence training immediately."
Before he could finalize his thoughts, he was taken by surprise as the door was thrown open with brute force.
One of the manor's maids entered, bearing a wooden tray, grumbling in a loud, grating voice that shattered the room's tranquility:
"It's feeding time! Ugh... how vexing. Why must I serve the likes of you?"
He looked at her with astonishment, thinking to himself:
"This is not the demeanor of a maid addressing one of the Lord's heirs."
The maid returned his gaze with overt contempt, gesturing rudely toward him as she spoke:
"Eat your food quickly; I cannot abide staying here a moment longer."
He resolved to ignore her insolence for the time being. He had no desire to court trouble when he did not yet comprehend the web of enemies surrounding him.
He returned the sword to its place and sat at the table.
He looked at the meal... it was merely a loaf of stale bread and a bowl of watery, pallid soup.
The maid laughed arrogantly as she watched him:
"Do you not like the food again? Get used to it; it is what is befitting an illegitimate son such as yourself."
He ignored her vitriolic words and lifted the spoon.
"It appears this boy's spineless personality has caused even the lowest of servants to hold him in disrespect."
However, the instant he tasted the very first drop of the soup, he froze in place.
He recognized that pungent taste—the familiar sensation he had battled for the past four hours.
It was the exact same black toxin that had been obstructing his aura.
He stood up slowly.
An icy coldness cloaked his features, and his dark eyes were suffused with a deadly gloom.
He grasped his sword, and with a single, swift motion, he struck the soup bowl, sending it crashing to the floor. The poisoned liquid splattered across the wooden floorboards.
He fixed his gaze upon her, addressing her in a tone as cold as a sword's blade:
"Who sent you?"
The maid recoiled a step, shock taking hold of her features, and spoke hesitantly:
"H-How dare you throw food away like that?"
He drew the sword from its scabbard, and at that precise moment, he unleashed his aura.
Despite his body's weakness, the unadulterated killing intent of the "Supreme Commander" enveloped the entire room.
The maid collapsed to her knees instantly, unable to withstand the terrifying pressure that suffocated her very breath.
He took a single step toward her:
"I shall not repeat the same question. Who ordered you to place poison in the soup?"
The maid's features shifted from shock to unadulterated terror.
She gazed at him as though beholding a monster for the first time, struggling to comprehend what she was seeing: the cowardly, introverted child who could barely speak was now standing before her with an overwhelming aura pressure, as if he were one of the Lord's great knights.
With stammering, trembling words, she whispered:
"No... no, you are not supposed to be able to use aura... this is impossible!"
With a lightning-fast motion, he swung his sword to cleave a sturdy wooden chair in half, then pointed the cold steel toward her throat.
"It seems you have been placing poison in my food throughout all these years..."
He narrowed his eyes.
"Your next words shall determine whether you remain alive to see tomorrow's sunrise or not. Decide wisely."
The maid collapsed completely, tears streaming from her eyes as fear gripped her heart:
"It's... it is Lady Morgana! She ordered me to do this... I beg of you, spare my life!"
The aura pressure vanished abruptly from the room.
He lowered his sword and patted the trembling maid's head with his hand, a very cold smile forming upon his lips.
"Clever girl. You made the right choice." He leaned down slightly to whisper to her: "I expect you not to inform Lady Morgana of what has transpired here just now. Otherwise... you know full well what will happen to you. You may depart."
The maid scrambled toward the door, stumbling over her own steps, as if she had just seen a demon.
And before she could exit, he signaled her, saying:
"Wait. Before you leave... ensure that in the future, you bring decent food, and that you clean this room thoroughly. Do we have an agreement?"
She nodded violently, panic consuming her:
"Yes! Yes, my Lord! As you wish!"
"Good. You may leave now."
The maid exited and closed the door behind her very quietly, as if nothing had happened.
He turned toward the mirror once more, looking at the reflection of that small child. A confident, terrifying smile carved its way across his face.
"It appears to be a different kind of challenge this time... this will be fun."