The sun was high over the Herlem border, baking the dry dirt of the training grounds into a fine, choking powder.
Reine Vangalf wiped sweat from his forehead with a bruised forearm. His hair—a strange, muted dark green shot through with streaks of premature white—clung to his neck.
To the casual observer,He looked scrawny, almost frail, in his oversized, padded gambeson. But beneath the heavy cloth, his muscles were corded like high-tension wire, the result of years of obsessive, desperate training that bordered on a sickness.
His eyes were his most striking feature—deep-set and sharp, with a heavy-lidded, predatory shape. He always looked like he was tracking a target just past the horizon.
The Debt of a Coward
Nearby, a group of soldiers sat in the shade of a supply wagon, picking at their mid-day mash.
"I actually feel bad for the kid," one soldier whispered. "He's the first one up and the last one to sleep. He's got heart... it's a shame he's still a Novice."
"Pity?" a veteran snorted, deliberately raising his voice. "Don't waste it. He's a Vangalf." The veteran spat into the dirt.
"His parents were too weak to face the debt they owed the Crown and took the coward's way out with a rope. The only reason he wasn't sold off to the mines is because he was tucked away at that prestigious sword academy when the collectors came. He didn't get 'lucky'—he just wasn't there to be caught. Now he's here, playing soldier while his siblings are worked to death in some nobleman's cellar."
Reine heard every word. He didn't turn. He didn't flinch.
He just gripped his iron practice sword tighter until his knuckles turned as white as the streaks in his hair. The guilt was a physical weight in his stomach, heavier than his armor, pulling him down into the mud.
The First Death
"REINE! WHAT ARE YOU STANDING AROUND FOR?"
The platoon leader's voice cracked like a whip. "Move! Go warn the camp commander. We've got movement on the horizon!"
The air felt thick with static. Reine began to sprint toward the main command tent. He was halfway across the field when the air suddenly hissed.
The first volley didn't come from the horizon. A rain of black shafts fell from the sky.
Reine dove, rolling as the ground sprouted steel-tipped wood. Behind him, screams erupted. The veteran who had just been mocking him was pinned to the earth—an arrow punched through his throat mid-sentence.
One arrow caught Reine in the arm. He grunted, his vision tunneling, but he kept running.
"Ambush! East flank!"
Reine drew his real blade. He wasn't fast, but he was desperate. He parried a clumsy swing from a foot soldier and drove his sword into the man's chest.
Then, the atmosphere changed. The temperature dropped ten degrees.
A man in dark, heavy plate armor stepped onto the field. He walked with the slow, terrifying confidence of an executioner. A Herlem officer—a man who had unlocked his Mana Core—charged the knight.
The knight moved his hand in a blur.
The officer's head left his shoulders before he could even finish his shout.
Reine's legs felt like water. If I run, I'm a coward like they say I am.
"No," he whispered. "I'm not backing down. Not again."
He charged. A warmth, fluid and violent, flooded his veins. His Mana Core finally manifested. He felt a surge of raw, unrefined power. He lunged at the dark knight, swinging with everything he had.
The knight didn't even look at him.
There was a dull thud. A flash of steel. And the world began to tilt.
Reine felt a strange weightlessness. He watched his own body, still standing for a second, blood geysering from the neck before it toppled over.
He realized his head was rolling through the dirt.
Everything was getting dark. I really wasn't anything special, he thought as the light finally vanished. Just another dead Vangalf in the mud.
The Snap
The world didn't fade; it snapped.
One moment, Reine was a severed head in the mud—the next, he was standing in the sweltering midday sun, his iron practice sword mid-swing.
A high-pitched, discordant shriek echoed in his skull. Reine's knees buckled. He collapsed into the dirt, gasping for air that didn't taste like smoke.
"Wha... what just happened?"
He looked up, and his "hunter eyes" had changed. They were the eyes of a man who had seen the bottom of a grave. Cold. Empty. Haunted.
"I actually feel bad for the kid," the soldier's voice drifted over.
It was a script written in blood.
The Second Death
"I regressed... a second chance!" Reine almost laughed, but he slapped himself hard. The sting grounded him.
"ON GUARD!" Reine roared. "THE PAEKL ARMY IS COMING! TO ARMS!"
He managed the impossible. He alerted the entire platoon. They stood ready on the eastern ridge. Shields locked. Steel drawn.
Five minutes passed. Ten minutes. Nothing but dust.
"You disrupted an entire border operation because of a 'feeling'?" the Army Commander barked, face twisting in fury. "Go to my office. We will discuss your court-martial."
As the men turned their backs, grumbling and cursing Reine's name, the sky turned black.
Swoosh.
The arrows feasted. Because the men were crowded and retreating, the slaughter was twice as bad.
"AMBUSH!"
Reine moved like a ghost. He was no longer a clumsy Initiate; he was a newborn warrior. He cut through three enemies in precise slices.
Then, the chilling aura returned. The dark knight stepped onto the field.
The Army Commander, a War-Stallion rank, lunged to meet him. It lasted two moves. The Commander's head hit the mud before his body knew it was dead.
Reine stood his ground. God gave me this power for a reason. I won't lose.
The Knight rushed him. Reine raised his blade in a perfect parry, but the Knight didn't hit the sword. Using speed that made the world look like it was standing still, the Knight flickered to Reine's blind spot.
A cold sensation. A wet snap.
The sinister, snapping sound played again.
Reine Vangalf was back on the training grounds, swinging his sword into the empty, sun-drenched air. He stopped. He didn't fall this time.
He just stood there, staring at his hands, as the veteran's voice began to rise in the distance once again.