Lorien stepped outside, greeted by the warm summer air and the hum of distant life. The cobblestone path leading from the manor stretched into the horizon, bordered by planes of grass swaying gently in the breeze. Ahead, the village on the idyllic fields, its wooden rooftops catching the sunlight. Children's laughter echoed faintly, mingling with the rhythmic beat of a blacksmith's hammer and the chaotic calls of the market.
For a moment, he stood still, taking it all in. A world that seemed so small compared to the grand conquests of his past spread in front of him.
With a faint smile, he took in his surroundings.
Man, I could tear up. Just how perfect is this life supposed to be?
Making his way into the active streets, he started to walk around. He had no goal in mind; just wandering around in peace was enough.
The more he approached the center, the more people started to greet him. Though mostly just in a quick respectful nod, some even came to him to shake hands or do some simple small talk. Some of the people he knew, some he didn't. Still, it didn't really matter, danger was the least of his worries.
After all, he was just the child of a half-dead noble house. Nobody would risk harming him for a fortune that didn't even exist.
At that thought, a faint, smug grin tugged at Lorien's lips.
Not that they'd stand a chance even if they tried.
From the moment of his reincarnation, Lorien had understood that while he had no intention of returning to the grueling labor and relentless grind of his past life, it would be foolish to abandon the skills that had once defined him. As a necromancer, his greatest weapon had been his mastery over death itself, commanding legions of the fallen to obey his will. But now?
He exhaled sharply, a quiet scoff escaping him.
The ability to summon the dead had always been impressive—there was no denying that. But he knew the truth better than anyone. The souls bound to those bodies were empty placeholders, devoid of thought or purpose beyond his commands. They were nothing more than puppets, doomed to fight and fall over and over again.
Not that it had mattered in the end.
His strength had never been in their quality but in their overwhelming numbers. Armies of the undead, so vast that their march could be felt in the trembling of the earth beneath them. The sound of their advance had echoed like thunder across the lands, an announcer of his inevitable domination. Often, their presence alone was enough to reduce his enemies to trembling cowards, his control over entire regions cemented by fear alone.
For a fleeting moment, pride flickered in his chest, a whisper of satisfaction at what he had once achieved. But it vanished just as quickly, smothered by the reality of his present circumstances.
Here, in his new, young body, his power was limited. All he could manage was the faint collection of mana left behind in corpses. His attempts at actually summoning them had failed miserably. His body simply couldn't handle the strain. The mana system within him, a network of veins that acted as a second nervous system, was still underdeveloped. It needed time to grow, to mature alongside the rest of him.
And right now? His ten-year-old form couldn't sustain even a single summon, no matter how much experience or ability he had.
At least I still know how to use a sword. Though I still fucking hate sparring against Barts.
Sighing deeply, Lorien shook the thought from his mind as he looked around. He had finally reached his destination: the village market.
Stalls lined the cobblestone square. Merchants called out to passersby, their voices blending into a chaotic yet oddly balanced tune. The smell of freshly baked bread drifted through the air, mixing with the aroma of roasted meats and the sharp scent of herbs. Crates filled with fruits sat beside baskets brimming with fresh vegetables. Children ran between the stalls, laughing and dodging enraged merchants, a few stray cats following them closely.
The market was lively. Villagers sold and exchanged goods, their conversations animated. In one corner, a farmer argued over the price of his potatoes with some stubborn customer. On the opposite side, an elderly woman inspected a tray of polished wooden figurines, her old hands tracing them as if she were trying to feel the history behind them.
Lorien's gaze swept over it all, taking in the vibrant scene. This place, so different from the grandiose royal courts and brutal battlefields of his past, felt almost alien in its simplicity. There was something grounding about it. Something real.
A faint smile crept onto his lips.
As he pondered, a wave of quiet satisfaction washed over him.
This world has moved on without me, he mused, the realization settling deep within him.
Something was comforting in the thought of being overlooked. For now, he was just a kid. A simple boy from a fallen noble family, wandering a market with nothing but time on his side.
His steps slowed as he passed a stall selling dried herbs. The merchant, a man with sharp eyes, glanced at him briefly before returning to his customer. Lorien didn't stop, instead letting his feet guide him further into the heart of the market. He watched the way people moved, the way their lives revolved around their concerns. Here, nobody cared about who he used to be or what he had done. To them, he was nobody.
And for the first time in what felt like centuries, Lorien found himself at peace with that.
His gaze drifted across the square, following the idle chatter of the villagers.
Despite the many interesting sights a large village like this had to offer, his attention was drawn to something else entirely. The forge at the far end of the square.
The blacksmith's stand was an odd combination of fire and iron, the heat from the forge rising in waves. Swords, axes, and hammers lay in cluttered rows, their blades practically beaming in the sunlight. The blacksmith, a large man with a thick beard and bald head, was bent over an unfinished axe, his hammer echoing with every swing.
Lorien approached without a sound, his footsteps light on the cobblestone. He had no real reason to be here, no need for weapons, no desire for anything that the blacksmith had to offer. But still, the way this man worked seemed too captivating to ignore.
As he arrived next to the man, the blacksmith finally looked up, his eyes narrowing in surprise at the sight of the young boy standing beside him. His hammer paused mid-swing, and for a brief moment, he seemed at a loss for words.
"Well, what a surprise," the blacksmith muttered, wiping the sweat from his brow. "Aren't you too young to be hanging around here young lord?"
Lorien only offered a small smile in reply. "Just looking. I don't need anything."
The blacksmith chuckled, though there was a hint of curiosity in his gaze. "Not many kids your age are so interested in weapons, and less so in a smith's work. What brings you here, then?"
"Curiosity, I suppose," Lorien replied calmly.
The blacksmith grunted in response, clearly satisfied with the answer. He gave Lorien a long look before turning back to his work, his hammer falling once more on the blade.
"Curiosity's a good thing. Keeps a man sharp."
After a few more moments of silent hammering, the blacksmith wiped his hands on his apron and motioned toward a small corner at the back of the stall.
"You know, a while back, a man came in, your butler, Barts was his name if I recall correctly. Wanted something special made for you."
Lorien blinked, caught off guard by the mention of Barts. "Oh?"
"Aye," the blacksmith said, grinning as he pulled a sword from a bag lying around. He pulled out a sheathed sword, its size too big for a child like him.
"A fine piece. Took me weeks to get it just right. All the right weight, the perfect balance. There's pride in this one, boy. Made it with my own hands."
Lorien stepped closer, eyeing the sword. It was beautiful, no denying that. The weapon was flawless, from the engravings on the hilt to the curve of the blade. But there was something else, something in the deep cave of his mind…
"Do you remember by chance? Has he told you anything boy?" the blacksmith asked, his voice quieter now as if measuring Lorien's reaction.
Lorien hesitated for a moment, then nodded slowly. "I suppose so."
It was true that Barts had mentioned commissioning something of the sort for him. Lorien, as usual, was pretty distracted by the beautiful weather that day, so it kinda slipped out of his mind.
The blacksmith studied him for a moment longer, then gave in. "Good. I put everything I had into this one. You'll do it justice, I hope."
Lorien didn't respond at first, the thoughts stirring in his mind a little too fast for him to catch. His hand twitched slightly, but he resisted the urge to reach for the sword. Instead, he gave the blacksmith a small nod.
"I'm sure I will," he said, his voice low.
Barts will probably get it for me in a few days, no need to carry around something as heavy as that. I am ten years old damn it, let the adult do his work.
With that, he turned away, offering a final farewell at the weapon and the smith before walking off.
The market seemed even more alive now, the noise louder, the smells sharper, but Lorien barely noticed. He passed by a stall selling fresh fruit and grabbed a small bundle of grapes, popping them into his mouth as he walked. The sweet burst of flavor did little to distract him. His mind was already somewhere else, lingering on the sword.
Why had Barts even commissioned it in the first place? If that guy even thinks about training with real swords, I might collapse.
Chuckling, he shook his head and moved on.
Nah, who cares, aint that serious anyway.
His steps led him away from the market, toward the village square, where a commotion had begun to stir.
A small crowd had gathered, and as Lorien drew closer, he noticed two boys sparring in the center, their wooden swords clashing with a sharp bang. Their feet shuffled across the ground, each boy trying to outsmart the other with quick, confident strikes. They were young—around twelve, maybe—but their focus showed that they took their training very seriously.
One boy had light brown hair, his pale face set in a determined expression as he parried a strike. The other, with dark red hair and a slightly less disciplined stance, grimaced at the failed attempt to strike. The two seemed evenly matched, though the way they moved spoke to their different styles. The boy with brown hair was more powerful, yet less agile than his red-haired counterpart.
Around the sparring ring, a group of senior guards watched critically, their expressions unreadable. A few of the younger recruits, standing at the edge of the crowd, were cheering loudly, calling out both names in a mixture of encouragement and mockery.
"Zalias! Reed!" they chanted in unison, their voices rising with each passing moment.
Lorien stood back, observing the scene with quiet interest. There was a certain energy to it, a rawness that reminded him of the battles he had once fought, though here the stakes were far lower. It wasn't life or death. It was just simple training.
For a moment, he almost felt an odd sense of nostalgia. The clash of swords, the shouts of encouragement, the raw determination in the eyes of the two boys. Everything felt familiar. He had also once been in their position, too. There was a time when he'd dreamed of a future free of burden, a life where he could share peaceful days with friends, perhaps even a family of his own.
But that bastard Aurelius, that fucking butcher ruined it all.
A bitter, metallic taste coated his tongue, his fists clenching at his sides.
He lingered there, watching, as the match unfolded before him.