Roland Steelsong let out a deep breath as he took in the scenario around him. His piercing blue eyes beheld a scene from hell.
Blood pooled up to his ankles, drowning the soft earth. The countless broken corpses of his enemies stretched all the way to the horizon. Their limbs had been separated from their bodies, while some were also headless. Others only had a single stab wound in their chest. The space was dominated by a metallic smell. Not a single bird made a sound. A few ravens picked at the body parts strewn about, tearing the skin and flesh from the bones. Their beady eyes reflected only the cloudy sky.
Rain fell.
On top of a hill where blood flowed downward like a river, Roland silently watched the carnage of his own creation. Piercing screams resounded.
"He's almost dead! Keep going!"
He turned to his surroundings. Standing and climbing over the corpses of their friends and comrades, innumerable enemies surrounded him. Their expressions ranged from outrage and fury to unfettered terror. However, the Aura within them surged, as if they weren't afraid of death. Were they hoping that he was already too exhausted to fight back? Roland shook his head. The dying embers of his Aura flared up. His right hand grasped a single sword's hilt. The sword was entirely white and shone with a blue hue. The glow followed the beating of his own heart. It thumped within his chest, sending blood and Aura coursing through his body.
The piled-up corpses were destroyed even further and forced to move as the closest one hundred enemies shot towards him, empowered by the energy they had gathered and developed for decades. The ground caved in, crumbling with a deafening roar. Blood gushed towards the cloudy skies, then was instantly incinerated by the storm of Aura. None of the enemies lost their balance even slightly. It was a matter of course for a battle at this level.
Sword Arts unfolded toward Roland, dominating the space around him. The very atmosphere vibrated and contorted. The heavy rain parted above them as the water was vaporized. However, to him, it was as if the attacks were moving in slow motion. His tired eyes watched the giant half-moons of energy aiming at him, cleaving the earth and corpses. Right behind them, the figures of the fastest attackers followed, their swords glowing with power. Their encirclement was perfect and covered every possible escape route.
Roland's response to all of this was merely to slash horizontally.
It was as if the world had been split in half.
The atmosphere was divided. Not a single sound echoed. The horizon tilted while the clouds above the battlefield came apart because of the sheer pressure. Blue Aura flooded out of Moonlight in a full moon around him and clashed against the incoming attacks. They fell apart like paper. The blue full moon hit the incoming enemies before they could blink; blood and viscera were devoured and turned to nothingness. The Sword Art kept going, annihilating the stone and corpses on its way with equal ease. Some of his opponents only had the time to raise a flimsy defense before the Aura slash hit them.
There was no blood. The attack simply went right through whatever it hit, making everything disappear. Some warriors tried to scream, but the split-apart atmosphere rendered their brief efforts useless. In a fraction of a second, thousands vanished from the battlefield. Sunlight, which had been previously hidden by the gray clouds, shone upon Roland and his enemies, as if the world was mocking the carnage. Roland floated in the air in the middle of a crater so deep that its bottom couldn't be seen, which extended for kilometers on end. Yet, in the distance, the hills of corpses remained. It was a testament to his weakened self.
Roland slowly descended, taking advantage of the momentary lull caused by the shock due to his attack. Truthfully, he knew that this moment of respite was short-lived. As he expected, only ten seconds passed before more enemies stepped forward. Their expressions were far calmer than his previous attackers, as if the deaths of thousands of their brothers-in-arms hadn't affected them at all. One of them spoke.
"That was his final Sword Art. Kill him."
They were right. After one hundred straight days of fighting, Roland's Aura reserves had bottomed out. The previous attack had been the last large-scale Sword Art he was capable of pulling off. More warriors flew toward him, flying through the air just like he could. A hurricane of energy took shape around them as their Auras joined one another. Yet, Roland's steeled mentality didn't collapse. He could still fight. No, the only reason why he had fought for so long was that he needed to talk to the one person behind all of this. It was why he had faced wave after wave of bloodthirsty enemies. He couldn't give up on this, even if it meant dying alongside his enemies. He couldn't give up on him again.
The first enemy arrived. He had been the fastest, but more foes followed him closely. With blinding speed, the man delivered an overhead slash. Aura crackled around his blade. It wasn't the kind of attack that Roland's current self could avoid without a cost. Roland sidestepped in mid-air, as if he were stepping on solid ground. Yet, the enemy's Aura still dominated the space around them for tens of meters. He had only avoided the blade itself.
The waves of energy tried to crush him, but he stood fast. Despite the countless injuries that marred his frame, the time he spent training his body didn't go to waste. Despite the pressure, his body could still move. The Aura within him circulated with extreme efficiency, but it was barely enough for him to be quick enough. Instead of trying to resist the incoming storm of energy, he let himself follow its course, focusing fully just on protecting his body. In less than a heartbeat, he was flung away, increasing the distance between him and his attackers.
The enemies kept coming. A trio slashed the air, creating enormous half-moons of Aura that he was no longer able to dodge. His only alternative was to face the Arts head-on. In his grasp, Moonlight sung. A small amount of blue Aura left the blade; his experience had judged that it was the bare minimum necessary to deflect the attacks with no injuries. Roland swung his sword three times. Once the blue Aura and the enemy attacks clashed, the blue energy was promptly overwhelmed, but not before slightly shifting the trajectory of the attacks. It was enough.
Stepping on the air as if it were solid ground, Roland spun. The giant blades of Aura passed by him uselessly. Finally, the first few enemies arrived within thirty meters of him. It was close enough to be considered melee range. Two of them kept getting closer, while the others slashed the air. Once again, Roland merely deflected their attacks while wasting as little energy as possible. His movements were flawless. There was not even a hint of wasted energy or time. He shot forward.
Moonlight collided with the closest enemy's blade with a deafening roar. The atmosphere shook as the clouds in the distant sky dispersed even more. Flying through the air, the two exchanged dozens of blows in less than a couple of seconds. Every time the swords reached each other, the heavens rumbled.
The enemy swung his sword diagonally with a yell.
"Just die already!"
Roland didn't respond. With a sudden burst of Aura, Moonlight clashed with the enemy's weapon, forcing the man backward with his arms above his head. It was a chance that nobody at their level would miss. Faster than sound, Moonlight stabbed forward, sinking into the attacker's neck. Less than a heartbeat later, the man's headless body fell toward the crater below them.
More enemies arrived, but their fates were the same, regardless of whether they focused on long-ranged attacks or melee combat. More and more warriors fought at the same time, trying to cover for one another's weaknesses and gaps. They attacked from virtually all directions, including from below and from above, taking advantage of their ability to fly, but the most they achieved was to graze Roland's ragged figure. Curses and pained screams resounded as Moonlight reaped life after life.
Every clash shook the earth. No blood flowed; Aura incinerated everything it touched. Slowly, as thousands upon thousands of warriors kept coming, some attacks finally hit their mark. They were few in number, but given Roland's current state, they were enough to hinder him. Wounds kept piling up, one after the other. Finally, the battle reached its conclusion.
Roland heaved, leaning on Moonlight on top of a mountain of corpses. After taking several deep breaths, he looked toward the sky. The sun shone as if mocking him. He turned his gaze to the horizon. Countless more enemies approached, but much more slowly than before. It seemed like they were already aware of his current state. There was only one thing left to do.
Silently, he slowly walked to a specific spot that he had avoided at all costs, stepping over bones and separated limbs. Blood covered his feet; it had been the result of when he stopped being able to use Aura to sear through his enemies. He stared straight ahead. In front of him, a dying man lay on the ground, breathing deeply while drowning in his own blood.
Roland approached the dying figure. Every step had the weight of a mountain. In spite of his injuries, his sense of balance remained unshakable. The dying man giggled as he took in this sight. Once the two of them were close to each other, he spoke.
"The fucking Sword Saint," he said, laughing.
The man coughed up blood, then vomited more. Roland knew that his time was almost up. Roland himself wasn't much different. The dying man flashed him a smile, his grin covered in blood.
"Yet, you will die here like a dog."
Roland said nothing. It was true. He was tired and utterly worn out, while the enemies were still countless. Despite his skill, his injuries had accumulated, and his Aura reserves had been exhausted. Tens of thousands of enemies had been slain, but a hundred thousand more remained. He was a one-man army against a true, organized force. Roland didn't need to wonder why that was the case. Throughout his life, he had made many enemies, and the people afraid of his power were countless. It wasn't far-fetched to picture hundreds of thousands hunting him down, as there was plenty that could be done to move even an unwilling soldier. What was unthinkable was the identity of the man behind it all. Roland spoke his first words to the dying man, his voice flooded with pain.
"…Why did you do this, Theo? You… You're-"
The man on the ground snarled, but only ended up coughing up more blood.
"Don't… Call me Theo."
A single tear dripped from Roland's eyes. He was familiar with the feeling of blades cutting through his flesh and that of fire burning his bones, but this was a different type of suffering.
"…You're my brother."
Theodore let out a gurgle that vaguely sounded like laughter.
"Brother…? You never cared."
Every word struggled to be said, but the heavy frown on Theodore's face wasn't just one of pain. Roland felt as if his heart were being ripped to pieces. He had cared. At least, he thought he did. He knew that since the death of their parents, he hadn't been very present, but that was because he was chasing after power to ensure that such a tragedy never happened to them again. Ever since that day, he spent every waking hour trying to become more powerful.
Roland still remembered how the two of them would fight with sticks as children under the watchful gaze of their father. The way they had sworn to become the two greatest swordsmen in the world. Those memories were painful. He couldn't even have a proper conversation with his brother, whose words were limited by his injuries, even though it had been years since they had last spoken. Theodore's eyes, however, were full of betrayal and disgust.
How did things end up like this?
Roland's single-minded pursuit of strength caused him not to even realize the resentment of his closest kin and the only family he had left.
"…I loved you, Theo. How could you try to kill me?"
Theodore snorted.
"If you can't think of a reason even now, you don't deserve to know."
The dying man coughed up blood and then vomited more. Roland replied with a shaking voice. He was still in denial.
"But… Why?"
Theodore gave him a bloody grin and opened his mouth to respond, but ended up spitting more blood. He could no longer speak. Roland knew that his brother's time was up. No more words could be exchanged between both of them. This fact alone made him feel as if his heart were being shredded. His lips curled downward. For the third time in his life, Roland cried.
His brother no longer moved. He moved his gaze to the heartless sky. The sun shone brightly as the sunlight covered Theodore's body. The rivers of blood glinted, creating a bizarre, oddly beautiful landscape. Roland was dominated by a single thought.
"If I could live again… I would choose a different life."
He had single-handedly pursued strength throughout his entire existence. To become greater than his past self had been everything he lived for. Without parents or friends, he became the strongest, but at the cost of every other facet of his life. It was to the point where his only brother had ended up turning against him. He was the only one at fault. He should have paid more attention to… Everything else.
I would have still wished to become the strongest, but… Following a different path.
His love for power remained. As he aged, however, he realized that it wasn't the only thing that mattered. Even he would describe his own life as a succession of empty battles. All the power he had acquired had been solely for himself. He couldn't even protect Theodore throughout their lives, and had only thought of doing so when they were already too old. He had assumed that his brother would be able to rise in power on his own, just like he had.
"…I could have been the strongest protector."
What if he had taken people under his wing? What if he had accepted one of the young swordsmen who came to him looking for guidance? What if he had stopped to look after his family? Perhaps he wouldn't be feeling such regrets at the end of his life.
In the end, none of it mattered. Roland closed his eyes. He knew that death approached. Slowly, his spirit left his body. He felt himself rise.
Roland Steelsong, Sword Saint, died standing, as a man who had brought an entire army to heel up until his last breath, but who couldn't help even his own family. His death was worthless.
***
Rylan Flameheart opened his blue eyes. Then, he immediately closed them again. A grunt echoed out of his mouth. The grunt soon turned into a pained scream, but it was quickly contained. He leaned on the table in front of him, feeling vertigo even though he was sitting down. A splitting headache assaulted his senses. It was as if a creature were chewing on his brain. Countless crystal-clear memories appeared in his mind; they were memories that did not belong to him.
He felt as if he had just woken up from a very long dream. He still remembered it in detail, and could no longer be sure if it was truly a dream. Memories of an entire life lived as another man filled him. Was he Roland Steelsong or Rylan Flameheart? He didn't know the answer.
The headache got even stronger. Rylan could no longer afford to scream or emit any sound. This pain was his entire world. Roland's memories superimposed themselves over his. The two identities clashed in his mind, memory over memory. Then, as suddenly as it appeared, the headache vanished, leaving him alone with his thoughts. He blinked a few times. His eyes looked far deeper than mere moments before.
"I am…"
He couldn't easily continue. He only spoke after some time.
"…I am Rylan Flameheart."
But why did he have the memories of Roland Steelsong? It was as if…
…A past life?
He felt drawn to this conclusion. He combed through his memories – Roland's included – finding out about the existence of beings who could do something like this.
A god?
Reincarnation was preached about in temples, but he had never paid them any heed. He worshipped no gods. In his "past life," only the edge of his sword deserved that amount of faith. However, in spite of having become powerful enough to acquire the title of Sword Saint, Roland had remained mortal. The gods were still far out of his reach. Was this the working one of them?
A shiver went down his spine as he looked at the table in front of him, which he had leaned on. A large amount of unknown substances was strewn over it. His mixed-up memories soon made him realize that they were drugs. Powder, liquids, edibles… There were all sorts of substances on the large table. Rylan slowly sighed to himself as he remembered what had happened.
It was his eighteenth birthday, and he was celebrating the only way he knew how. Something had occurred, and he had been flooded by the memories of a possible past life. At this moment, the most important thing was to identify the nature of what had happened to him. Rylan wished for something that contained all the information about him to appear in front of him. A blue, translucent rectangle came into view.
Status Window
Name: Rylan Flameheart
Level: 8
Race: Human (F)
Class: Mage
Profession: none.
Trait: Weak-willed
Stats
Strength: 7
Agility: 8
Endurance: 7
Body: 6
Intelligence: 12
Wisdom: 11
Free Points: 0
Active Skills
Magic Missile (F).
Passive Skills
Mana Core (First Circle).
Titles
Novice Mage; Wastrel; Good-for-Nothing; Reincarnator.
Rylan's gaze hovered over his stats, but they remained unchanged. In the Titles section, however, he saw what he was looking for. He focused on the new Title with trembling hands, and its information appeared before him.
[Title
Reincarnator: life exists across countless realities. To live again is the destiny of a chosen few. You have been reincarnated into a new life by a twist of fate. Take care, lest your chance be wasted.
Effects: appears and unlocks memories of past life once one reaches adulthood. The memories can result in different scenarios based on how clearly one remembers them and what they consist of.]
A chill went down Rylan's spine. The System never lied or made mistakes, and this was true even in Roland's memories. He had really been Roland Steelsong in a past life. Once this realization dawned on him and he read the full effects of the title, he hurriedly stood up. Opening the nearest wardrobe, he scrambled to find paper and an enchanted quill. Swiping his arm across the table, he shoved away the drugs and started writing down as much as he could of the memories of his past life. He couldn't forget them, now that he had discovered what they truly were.
Time passed by slowly. More and more paper was used up. The action of noting everything down helped him focus his mind and organize the new memories. Thankfully, they didn't seem to be growing fainter. Rylan scowled inwardly.
What a worthless life.
Roland had pursued strength to his last breath, but it cost him everything. Even his own brother had ended up turning against him. Once his thoughts reached this point, Rylan felt his heart ache. It was unavoidable now that he had acquired his past life's memories; he felt as if his true brother had betrayed him. He looked at the drugs on the ground.
What… What have I been doing?
His life was very different from Roland's, but wasn't the conclusion the same? Rylan, too, had been living a worthless existence. He took part in debauchery, partying, and drugs without caring about anything else. He stopped writing. Determination flooded his visage. This could not go on.
At that moment, the door burst open.