Mordren Caelwyn.
They had called him many names in his previous life. Nameless. Madman. Master of the Blade.
He hadn't given his name to anyone—not out of arrogance, but because names were for those seeking legacy, recognition, or remembrance. Mordren wanted none of that. His name had been his sword, and its sharpness spoke louder than any syllable.
And madman—yes, that too was fair. Seventeen years of relentless training, culminating in the overthrow of his own kingdom just to test the peak of swordsmanship? Only a lunatic would go that far.
And master of the blade? Oh, that one... that one was true.
In that world—my world—no one matched me. No one ever would. No one even dreamed it possible.
Now?
Now he was... this. A baby.
Lying in a cradle soft enough to offend his calloused soul, Mordren—now Frejion—stared at the ceiling with crimson eyes too sharp for an infant. His tiny hands lay still, betraying no twitch or babble.
Then he entered the room.
A man with disheveled brown hair and a growing beard leaned over him with an exaggerated grin.
"Ohhh, who's daddy's little killer, huh? Goo goo—gouge-gouge~"
He spoke in a sing-song voice, already waving a small wooden sword dangerously close to the child's nose.
Frejion blinked slowly.
The beard…
Even now, fresh into his new existence, Mordren's soul recoiled.
Barbarians have beards. Weak men cover their jaws in shame. And kings—kings hide their cowardice behind facial hair.
He had sworn never to grow one. Not in his last life. Not in this one. Not even in the next ten.
And yet here this fool stood, grinning with whiskers and gifting steel toys to a newborn.
Who gives a hatchet to an infant?! What madness is this?
The man's enthusiasm didn't falter, despite the baby's absolute indifference. This only encouraged him.
"Aren't you the cutest tiny warlord! My little slayer-in-training, yes you are, yes you—"
A sharp voice cut through the silliness like a blade.
"Lon, stop shaking the baby like a maraca. He'll cry, and frankly, it would be deserved."
The woman stepped into the room with the air of someone used to issuing commands and having them obeyed—or else.
Zenith Damon.
Not Frejion's mother, but close. Her long black hair flowed like ink under starlight, and her crimson eyes gleamed with quiet authority. She was elegance mixed with sharp corners—beautiful, like a dagger.
Frejion looked up at her, then back at the overly affectionate man who seemed to be his father.
Loniel Damon, he thought dryly. So this is what fatherhood looks like in this world... Spirits help me.
Zenith rolled her eyes. "You're going to turn him into a lunatic."
"Oh come on, I'm bonding with my son!" Lon grinned, lifting Frejion like a loaf of bread. "What's wrong with a little—uhhh—combat exposure? He's going to be a warrior!"
"He's five days old."
"Exactly! Just the right age to start learning spear formations!"
Frejion considered biting his own tongue. If this continues, I will die. Not from illness. Not from enemies. But from secondhand embarrassment.
Zenith muttered something about "damned idiocy being hereditary," before returning her attention to the child.
"Our clan needs a strong successor," she whispered, more to herself than anyone else. "He has to be... more than this."
Frejion almost agreed.
If the gods truly sent me here to "start over," they've picked the worst candidate. I am not a blank slate. I am carved from obsession. Chiseled by madness. I do not want redemption, I want challenge. And if I must make the same 'mistakes' again... so be it.
But before anyone could continue the bizarre scene, a new voice entered, sharp and loud, like a pan tossed onto a stove.
"Both of you—OUT."
A woman marched in with the fury of a general. She wore a simple apron, but her bearing was anything but. Her black hair was tied in a messy bun, and her eyes—lighter than Zenith's—burned with the quiet fire of someone who had had enough.
She was stunning, even more than Zenith. Curves like godly architecture and a beauty that did not ask for attention—it demanded it.
Frejion stared. This one... is my mother?
Loniel has taste. Terrible sense. But good taste.
She glared at the bickering pair like they were toddlers.
"Are you two seriously doing this here? In front of a baby?!"
Zenith raised a brow. "Your husband's an idiot."
"Thanks for the reminder," the woman snapped. "And you're not exactly innocent either, Miss Passive-Aggressive Death Glare. Settle your issues in the sparring yard like normal people!"
Frejion could barely process their speech patterns. Every sentence came out either twice as long or repeated for drama. It was like watching theater... but badly translated.
They talk like they're trying to convince the sky to cry. It's all repetition and flair. What kind of people are these?
Despite their antics, Frejion saw something strange in their eyes—especially in Zenith's. A quick flicker of sorrow. Hidden, then gone.
His mother caught it too. Her frown deepened, but she turned her frustration into authority.
"You're both Experiences, aren't you? Start acting like it. Or at least try."
Whatever Experience meant here, it was clearly serious. Zenith and Lon stiffened.
They turned to each other, eyes brimming with mutual disdain, and maybe something else.
A spark.
A warrior's spark.
Frejion blinked again. They're going to fight.
He could sense it in the air. Not just tension. Intention.
Even as a baby, his instincts were razor sharp.
This is the part where the swords come out.
***
Their eyes locked—fierce, focused, unblinking.
Not a word. Not a twitch.
Just the silence of warriors about to ignite.
Lon gripped a heavy wooden sword—longer than most and thick like a butcher's cleaver. In contrast, Zenith held a more traditional blade, slender and swift, also wooden, but carved with far more care.
They stood like gods sculpted from heat and tension.
And still, they didn't move.
Frejion watched from the porch steps, swaddled but curious. It was his first time beyond the cradle, and already, the world was throwing a gift in his direction.
They're... both pretty good, he thought, an uncharacteristic smirk curling his baby lips—far too refined for someone born just five days ago.
The world around him was strange, though not unexpected. From his first breath, he'd known this was not his world. The village looked like a sprawling countryside, yet built with the purpose and grandeur of a city. Their estate towered above the rest, filled with more servants than he could count—but none had dared show themselves in five days.
But enough of that... Back to the fight.
The two combatants hadn't blinked once.
And then—BOOM.
Lon lunged first. No hesitation, no caution. Pure impulse made flesh.
Frejion wasn't surprised.
Of course. A man like him would never wait.
The wooden greatsword cleaved downward in a flash, aiming to end the duel in one savage stroke. But Zenith leapt—light as a feather, fierce as a storm—vaulting over him with a pirouette that bled elegance and fury.
Midair, her blade screamed downward.
Lon's hand snapped up, catching her sword mid-swing with terrifying precision. Then—without pause—he brought his own wooden slab crashing down on her skull.
THWACK.
The sound echoed like thunder. Blood splashed the dirt.
A normal person would have collapsed.
Zenith?
She smiled.
No. She grinned.
Something in her snapped awake—not pain, not fear. Passion.
A new glint in her eye. A beast unshackled.
She launched forward, her blade a flurry of strikes—ten, twenty, thirty slashes in mere seconds. A rain of blows fell upon Lon like a divine punishment.
She was faster.
Stronger.
Evolving.
Her stamina is surging… she's adapting mid-fight? That's not adrenaline, Frejion mused. That's something else entirely.
Lon staggered back—his sword too heavy, his style built for overwhelming force, not fending off tempests. Yet, just as his heels began to slide—
Crack.
His feet stopped.
But not from strength.
A white substance, thin as mist but dense as stone, spread across the ground beneath him, anchoring him in place. Not glue. Not magic. Something else.
The last of Zenith's attacks crashed down—and met resistance.
Lon caught her final strike with both hands, holding her in place like an immovable monument.
The white substance faded.
He smiled. "Got you now."
Then he exploded forward.
His blade drove into her stomach—not sharp enough to pierce, but the force was monstrous.
BOOM.
Zenith flew.
Not fell—flew.
Dozens of meters away, her body crashed through a training dummy and landed hard.
Frejion's eyes widened. What did I just witness?
He wasn't sure which confused him more—the strange white energy, or the fact that Zenith wasn't dead.
She should be.
But instead—
She got up.
And then she vanished.
No flash, no sound—just gone.
And reappeared behind Lon.
He turned just in time to see her smile.
CRACK.
Her fist collided with his face.
His nose bent sideways. Blood sprayed. Lon flew—twice the distance he'd launched her.
Zenith landed with grace, hair tousled, eyes alight.
"Even," she said, giggling. "Hehe."
Petty? Maybe. Childish? Certainly. But undeniably powerful.
Everything about her at that moment felt untamed—playful and primal.
Frejion exhaled sharply through his nose. She's dangerous. No form, no stance. Just instinct and momentum. She's fighting like a kid with godlike limbs.
Then—footsteps.
Lon returned.
Slow.
Measured.
One hand wiped blood from his nose. The other gripped his sword casually, like it was nothing but a branch.
"Not bad," he said. "Let's see if you can dodge this."
His muscles compressed.
Frejion's breath caught.
It wasn't training. It wasn't strength.
It was like every sinew in his body had been coiled, restructured, tightened to a level no human should reach.
Zenith's smirk widened—but not out of arrogance.
It was a challenge accepted.
She didn't wait. Didn't let him finish his power-up.
Only idiots or lunatics allowed their enemies time to prepare.
And she was neither.
She struck first.
But Lon didn't fall.
His teeth cracked. Blood sprayed. A rib likely snapped.
But he endured.
That same strange white energy locked his feet again—anchoring him to the earth, keeping him upright through sheer force of unnatural stability.
Then—
He unleashed.
A single swing.
It came from below, rising like a tidal wave.
Zenith's senses screamed.
She dodged.
But not fast enough.
BOOOOOOM.
The impact split the training ground open. Trees shook. Dust engulfed the courtyard.
Zenith flew again—farther than ever. Her body hit the dirt like a ragdoll, unmoving.
Broken.
Done.
She didn't rise.
Frejion stared in silence. Around him, servants and other onlookers emerged, activating strange sigils and restoring the damage to the arena. Others moved toward Zenith and Lon, hands glowing with restorative energy.
It was over.
And now, he was sure.
This world…
...has powers far beyond anything I imagined.