While Romian remained unconscious...
"Damn it! I left everything to Phillia. She pushed herself to her limits… All because I was naive enough to think I could pull off that skill on the first try without consequences. Turns out I was wrong. I bit off way more than I could chew! Lucky I have this weak body—ironically, it saved my life this time. I could've died if I'd been unluckier…" Romian muttered internally, realizing how narrowly he'd escaped disaster.
He floated in a weightless void, seeing nothing, feeling nothing—only his own voice echoed in the darkness. At least that confirmed he wasn't dead.
"But what's happening to my body? Did my arrogance kill me again? Or is this normal when you're unconscious? Wait… No, I've fainted plenty in my past life. This… isn't normal." Panic simmered as Romian recognized the abnormality of his state. The more he dwelled, the clearer it became: this wasn't ordinary unconsciousness.
To distract himself, he rambled nonsensically.
"Nights are colder than outside—a quote by Beethoven Amadeus Chopin von Lizst, definitely! Silence is golden, silver is… poetic? Sure, whatever. Maybe I should analyze that sword technique instead… Yeah, that's saner." His mind spiraled, fixating on the skill that had nearly destroyed him.
The technique hadn't looked complicated, yet its execution defied logic. Romian had mimicked the stance: gripping a massive greatsword—unusually long, over two meters—with a hilt and guard fused to the blade in a way he couldn't quite visualize. He'd held it vertically, slightly tilted, shifted his right arm, crouched, and pivoted his legs. But his imitation lacked precision, and the result? Catastrophic injuries, both physical and mental.
"Damn it! None of this makes sense! I copied every detail—muscle relaxation, then straining to the limit. The sword angle shouldn't matter—horizontal, diagonal, vertical. It worked for him! But I don't have his strength or skill. The only 'potential' I showed was tearing my muscles apart and whimpering. Wow…"
As he replayed the memory, he noticed something new: the swordsman had seemingly teleported behind an opponent mid-swing. Romian hadn't grasped that nuance before.
"What even defines a sword's essence here? Power? Precision? Or just… madness?"
A weapon to kill? A weapon to protect? A weapon to achieve his goals? A weapon symbolizing justice?
There were too many paths—infinite, really—because every reason is valid if it resonates with the wielder.
But what about Romian?
Does he train with a sword just because his father does? Does he wield it believing it's the ultimate weapon? Or because it means something to him?
But what is that "something"?
"Something" could be anything. What does it mean specifically to Romian?
Love? Hate? Success? Gratitude? Vengeance? Justice?
He pondered endlessly but found no answer. If anything, a regular sword seemed ill-suited for him—too heavy for his weak body. He didn't even understand his own mana or magical potential.
"Argh!!" Romian groaned, frustration boiling over.
Trapped in this void, he could only replay memories. Most humans fear darkness from birth—an abyss of nothingness, a solitary void without light or hope.
"What could the sword be for me?! WHAT?!" Mentally exhausted, Romian couldn't envision a path with the sword. Maybe it was the wrong weapon. What about others?
Spears, axes, bows, staves…
But mastering any weapon requires dedication. Would switching make sense for him? He didn't have to use a standard sword. A two-hander, a greatsword—maybe altering the blade type would help him find meaning.
Even the blade's shape mattered: clip-point, symmetrical, tanto-style. Every detail could hold the answer. Some are born talented, mastering any sword effortlessly. Romian wasn't among them.
Lost in the chaos, he found no clarity.
In his past life, he'd practiced kendo—not to escape his perversions (which he indulged anyway), but to lie to himself that he was salvageable, someone who could belong.
A hypocrite.
He'd deluded himself for years until realizing he had no one. Then, he accepted the truth: a worthless, useless person, the scum of humanity, unworthy of life.
He'd grown cold young, but inexperience left him vulnerable. He refused to repeat the mistake of becoming that again—someone who did the bare minimum, devoid of ambition. That's why he now tore his mind apart, seeking a path to strength.
His frail body didn't have to be his weakness—but without passion, without pouring his soul into a weapon, it would be.
"What if the sword is meant to protect my family?" The thought felt hollow. Deep down, he knew this wasn't his path. He lacked the burning conviction to accept it, and he refused to lie to himself again.
Besides, he'd never reach his potential. He wasn't delusional—he'd done kendo, unusually skilled given his weak physique and disdain for sports.
He'd once believed in his talent, but that illusion shattered when he faced true prodigies. It was humiliating, infuriating. Broken, he quit kendo soon after.
Hard work will never trump true talent, no matter how optimistic you are.
And if a talented person also strives, hard work won't even breathe the same air as that talent.
Romian had felt this firsthand in his past life. He'd seen how those prodigies took everything they wanted—not because they were born with power (though that happened), but because they built something no amount of grit could topple. Not even in dreams.
"Whatever. I can choose my path with the sword later. I still need to learn the fundamentals. Why lock myself into a path now? I've got plenty of time."
And so Romian gave up again—hypocritically lying to himself. He knew if he committed to a path now, he'd grow stronger faster. But instead, he made excuses, avoiding self-confrontation.
Humans love shifting blame, delaying things—just as Romian did. By nature, humans are wretched creatures obsessed with profit and self-worth.
Yet exceptions exist—those who sacrifice for others. In history, noble kings, revolutionaries… the list goes on. These exceptions are extraordinary. Romian wasn't one of them. Comparing him to them would be an insult.
But since Romian didn't belong to that group, he couldn't strive to be honest with himself. Even when he was—and still is—a horrible person, why not change?
Is the question his principles? No. Why adopt a principle that you should be scum and not improve? To have a reason—a right—to live.
But the answer was simple: laziness.
Laziness had driven him. He'd already broken himself working to death for meager pay—why improve? Better to chase fleeting pleasures, which became addictions because his life had nothing else.
Yet this was the flaw Romian sought to fix. He wanted to shed that laziness. He still felt its pull, but weaker now. He'd improved—solely because of those around him.
People who mattered. People he didn't want to disappoint. He wanted to prove he could achieve something despite his weak body, and he worked hard to improve.
People who cared—something he lacked in childhood. His parents died early, his grandparents too. His aunt adopted him only out of obligation to his mother; she despised him. So Romian felt no urge to prove himself or his talents. Change never crossed his mind. He'd tried kendo to better himself, but realized it was pointless. He was someone unworthy of life, yet he lived on—chasing dopamine highs, wanting to exist forever in that bombastic bliss.
But reincarnation flipped everything. Now, in this life, he had to show responsibility—not to let down those closest to him. Yet after all these years, could Romian truly feel… normal?
"Damn it! How long will I be trapped like this? Let me out! I've learned my lesson—I shouldn't have used that skill! Body—or whatever this place is—send me back. Back to those who haven't given up on me…" His voice grew hoarser, barely audible—more like subtitles in his mind than sound.
He didn't want to be here anymore. He didn't even know where "here" was.
One of humanity's primal fears—darkness, isolation—gnawed at him. It felt like torture.
Romian tried to cling to memories, but they slipped away, dragging him back to where he didn't want to be.
"What… WHAT can I change about this skill?! I lack stable foundations. My body's weak. I don't even know my mana state. And I still need excuses for that bloodbath, why I've been 'asleep' longer than usual—it feels like weeks, maybe months here! Yet I've found no answer for my sword path, no viable version of that swordsman. Hah—how ironic." Romian broke. He saw how pathetic he was—no answers, just like before. Utterly useless.
But without the dopamine bombs that once made him feel good, Romian was left alone in this void, forced to confront himself. How could he walk the path of a lone wolf when he knew, deep down, he'd never betray his family? A path where you crush everything unrelated to your goal, as if existence itself depends on it—but what was Romian's goal?
To become a knight? A mage? Both? Or live a quiet life?
"No."
A quiet life? Hah—never. He craved action—maybe even a grand harem? Or did he truly want that?
Romian's thoughts spiraled. Every passing minute felt like days, stretching endlessly…
Even as madness crept in, he fought to stay grounded, ignoring the voices whispering in his mind—voices born from his own desperation to feel less alone. But they only tormented him, echoing what he already knew.
"Maybe twist your leg more—"
"No, build more muscle to tense at the right moment—"
"Nei—"
The cacophony overwhelmed him.
"STOP!" Romian snapped, teetering on the edge. Each second stretched into eternity. He couldn't hear the outside world, didn't even know his own state.
One thing was clear: if he woke up, he'd need an excuse aligned with Phillia's story. But what?
The abrupt shift in focus briefly steadied him. He concocted a plan. If he claimed the blood was his, he'd lose all privacy—maybe until adulthood. So, what lie would Phillia plausibly tell?
"What's Phillia really like?"
Mysterious yet kind, fiercely loyal to his parents. How had they met her? A question he'd never bothered with.
She got along with everyone—smart, usually calm, terrible at lying, but impulsive when challenged. What would she say?
"She'd blame an animal. A hare? Testing a self-defense technique on it. Why a hare? They're harmless, easy to justify. 'I used too much mana, passed out from shock'—that could work. But what if I don't wake up…? Doesn't matter. Assume it."
As Romian schemed, a light pierced the darkness—brighter, closer.
He reached for it.
"Where's it coming from? Doesn't matter—I need it!"
His hand stretched toward the glow, his own silhouette faintly visible. The light intensified, blinding—until…