It all began from a medieval movie—a story of how a man became a God with just his sword.
For the boy watching, it wasn't just a movie. It was a revelation.
Through that encounter, his fate changed drastically.
Under a vast, judgmental blue sky, the sun hung like a golden eye, silently observing a child who would one day attempt to seize its radiance.
A boy, who forged a dream of becoming the strongest.
He desired power that could be called absolute and unmatched. A longing for a fitting title that no man could ever attain.
"The strongest in the world."
Born into the sterile, modern era, he rejected the comfort of machines.
He obsessed over the ancient, bloody disciplines, fixated on the historical techniques that had conquered the world before the cowardice of gunpowder.
"Sword is the best."
The boy always expressed his desire, wanting to show the world that the era of swords had not yet been forgotten. But had been waiting for someone to remind the world of its value.
But no matter what he did, all the effort he put in, all the training he endured. It could still not match a speeding bullet.
Reality is a cruel master. In the end, the young boy who dreamed of becoming the strongest, met his end in the dim fluorescent flicker of a convenience store, bleeding out at the hands of a common thief with a handgun.
Even after death, as his consciousness frayed into the void, his soul didn't cry out in fear. It roared with a singular, unyielding obsession.
"I want to become the strongest."
The boy's potential had been limitless from the start.
He had mastered the hidden arts of various swordsmanship, and tempered his fists in secret.
But reality judged him wrongly, for he had been born in the wrong century. He was a rising knight trapped in an era he couldn't accept.
Even as death claimed him, his commitment remained constant.
It was an unachievable dream in a world that had completely abandoned the honorable ways of the sword, and relied on the pinnacle of advancement.
Yet the boy's commitment did not waver, but somehow accepted the fact that he could not transcend beyond in this world. In the end, a bullet was still something he could not defeat with determination alone.
The boy, now dead, regretted how is life was cut short. He wanted to live more to achieve his dream.
"Ahh, my dream… still can't match a gun, huh?"
These were the boy's final words—a testament to his fate, a longing for something unattainable.
Just as his consciousness faded, what greeted him on the other side wasn't heaven nor hell.
But a sudden, overwhelming warmth. Like waking up from a freezing nightmare, inside a sun-drenched room.
"Look, he's opening his eyes."
"Wahh, so cute."
The voices were melodic, utterly filled with joy. Vibrating with a depth he had never heard.
And as the blurriness in his vision faded, the boy felt entranced by a doting look on a man's face.
"Hello, son. I am your father."
The boy wondered what was happening.
He couldn't speak, as if his tongue wasn't yet capable of forming words.
"Oh my! I'm your mother, my dear baby boy."
A woman leaned behind the man, showing genuine happiness toward the clueless boy.
The boy, feeling awestruck and confused, could only stare in disbelief. Mesmerized by the sheer presence of these two.
"Dear, I shall name him… Ragnar!"
"Yes, that sounds wonderful."
The boy felt even more confused, unable to understand why they were giving him a name since he already had one.
But just as he tried to reach out his hand, he suddenly froze in shock.
The hands that had gripped wooden swords until they bled were gone. In their place were the tiny, soft fingers of an infant.
"Did I just reincarnate?"
The boy, now named Ragnar, came to a sudden conclusion. After he died, he had been reborn into a new body—a child, at that.
It was a phenomenon he had read about in fictional stories made by imaginative authors, and an occurrence he could hardly believe existed.
He had lived, he had died, and he had been spat back out into a new vessel.
A brewing storm of questions bombard his head. And a rarity in such conflicted thoughts suddenly came to his mind, forcing him to shout internally.
"System!"
It was a must-do for those reincarnated in another world. Most fictional stories he had read always included a system after reincarnation.
"Status! System! Inventory!"
He waited for the holographic chime, the blue screen of cheat abilities that would guarantee his ascent.
But to his expectation, nothing happened.
"Ragnar, say papa!"
"No, say mama!"
The woman, alongside the man, insistently wanted their son's attention, oblivious to the existential crisis occurring in his infant mind.
He realized then, that there was no system. No hand-holding. Not a fictional story. This was reality—just a different one.
A cold, sharp thrill ran through his tiny soul. He didn't need a screen to tell him he was powerful. He had his memories, his discipline, and a second chance in life.
"This time… I shall become the strongest!"
Though the words sounded like a child's babble, the determination behind his words were unrivaled.
"Ohhh, did my baby say goo goo gah gah? How cute!"
"Hahaha! Let us celebrate, dear!"
The mother, supposedly tired from giving birth, and the father, who had stayed by her side, looked extremely joyous, showing no ounce of exhaustion.
Thus, the boy, now Ragnar, was once again driven by his desire to become the strongest in the world.
A revelation of fate, that would someday change the world.
With his birth, the clouds of the night sky suddenly shifted. Just like how the infant finally became a young lad capable of standing on his own feet.
"That is not how you do it, again!"
"No, I don't want that!"
The father, Razul Von Dragonia, now a bearded man, seemed distressed.
Meanwhile, the thirteen-year-old Ragnar Von Dragonia stubbornly disobeyed his father's teachings.
The two quarreled before an open area surrounded by ancient trees of their domain.
"I told you, this is your father's greatest treasure! Be honored that I am teaching it to a scoundrel like you!"
"No, I don't want to learn that! It's awful and too flashy!"
"Urgh, you darn brat! Why can't you just listen to your father!"
Ragnar and Razul expressed their dissatisfaction openly, continuing to bicker. Razul wanted to pass down his swordsmanship to his son, but Ragnar refused and chose to train on his own.
The boy had grown and learnt various things.
Through his mother, Asuna Von Dragonia. Ragnar was taught proper etiquette, and literacy. He had also learned the vastness of this world—a place filled with mysteries, a home for many races, and deep-seated hatreds.
Upon learning, Ragnar dreamed of venturing into the world his mother described. But due to their current circumstances, he could not leave home.
Their home was atop a tall mountain, that pierced through the clouds. A massive moutain called Labrador—a dwelling of monstrous creatures that fed on flesh.
From the outside, Labrador looked like an ordinary tall mountain. But to those who knew, it was a prison that suppressed the monsters from ascending.
Above the mountain was once, a massive entrance, now an open land. And it was the only pathway that leads to where the monsters reign hidden.
The pathway from above was completely sealed and had turned into a large forest capable of holding a city. Yet the only building visible was Ragnar's home.
What excited Ragnar the most, however, wasn't the landscape—it was mana.
A mysterious energy that amplified an individual's abilities, unlocking dormant potential, allowing the use of elemental magic and enhanced physical strength.
It was the key to achieving his life-long dream of becoming the strongest.
In this world, the invention of gunpowdered weaponry were deemed unnecessary for magic itself reigned supreme. And mana was the most extraordinary weapon anyone could wield for it possess boundless mysteries.
Razul Von Dragonia was a name that commanded the winds themselves.
A master swordsman of boundless mana, he was among the individuals who created their own sword form—a technique requiring not just peerless martial skill, but a profound mastery of mana flow.
"You know how talented I am! Why don't you listen to your father!? Obey me and learn my swordsmanship!"
Razul ordered, his stern command carrying the weight of his reputation.
Yet Ragnar, possessing a stubbornness that rivaled the mountains, did not flinch.
"I refuse!"
"But why!?"
"Your swordsmanship is too flashy! There are too many flaws in your techniques! And I don't want to die just because of how I performed a flashy swordsmanship!"
"What are you talking about!?" Razul's eyes widened in disbelief. "Who would die just performing a perfect sword form!?"
"Ugh, I don't want to listen to your blabbering anymore! I will not learn that stupid, flashy swordsmanship!"
Unable to contain his frustration at the boy's insolence, Razul's hand moved like a blur, smacking him on the head.
"You brat! How dare you mock my sword form!"
Their bickering echoed through the forest, and was silenced by the arrival of a soothing aroma—the scent of Asuna's cooking, a signal that the day's conflict was over.
By nightfall, the three sat around a table laden with a feast. Seeking an ally, Ragnar turned to his mother.
"Mother, please tell father that I do not wish to learn his sword techniques," Ragnar pleaded, hoping for his mother's support.
Asuna's gaze drifted toward Razul. The renowned swordsman instinctively flinched under her silent observation.
"My dear, it's not that I'm forcing our child. But… yes! Tradition! You know about the tradition, right?"
Asuna wore a bright, radiant smile, but beneath it lay a coldness more brutal than any of Razul's strikes. Both men knew her wrath well.
"Tradition… well, I guess it can't be helped. Even if you don't want to, you must listen to your father and learn his swordsmanship techniques, my son. Do you understand?"
Instead of receiving help, Ragnar felt the weight of her calm, gentle words—a subtle but unmistakable threat.
"Y-yes, mother."
Obediently, he agreed. No more words were spoken while Asuna ate, and the two men focused on their meals before sleep.
The next morning, Ragnar practiced with the sword.
It wasn't his father's flamboyant sword form but a combination of techniques from his past memories. He merged his Earthly swordsmanship with what he could learn here, compensating for flaws and creating something new.
He had created his own sword form—ordinary in appearance but flawless and powerful, a sign of his desire for perfection.
In the predawn mist, away from his father's prying eyes, Ragnar stood before a massive boulder.
And in front of a massive boulder, he stood with a prepared expression.
"Then, shall I try all formations of my absolute swordsmanship? Kuku."
He muttered, eager to test its full power, though he hadn't even named the techniques yet. He temporarily called it, absolute swordsmanship.
His absolute swordsmanship had five formations.
The first formation, A strike that bent the balance of the sword and the user's strength, delivering an ordinary swing with extraordinary force. Capable of slicing anything within its path.
With a single swing of his sword, the massive boulder instantly got sliced in half. Leaving no cracks attached on the damaged area.
The second formation, A technique that required precision, absurd speed, and deception. An artistic swordsmanship that were mixed with flurry of thrusts and feints, creating mirror images—an unpredictable attack.
Ragnar accurately thrusted his sword in an absurd speed, mixing in feints as if the sliced boulder was a living enemy. With his utmost precision, he cleanly pierced through the boulder. Like a needle being struck in an apple.
The remaining three formations remained a mystery, for it required more than just strength, agility, and keen senses. It needed an active mana core—a vessel for mana that he had yet to awaken in order to perform the three formations without fully exhausting his body.
"Damn it, my body tires immediately after the second formation," he panted, sweat dripping from his brow. "To complete the others, I must activate my mana core. But when will they teach me the method?"
He sank into a meditative stance, drawing in the thin mana from the atmosphere to nourish his dormant core.
From the safety of the treeline, a hidden witness, Razul watched in stunned silence.
He had come to check on his son, only to find a boulder sliced with impossible precision and punctured by thrusts that defied logic.
"That kid… even with an inactive core… he really surpasses my expectations," Razul whispered, a proud, knowing smile touching his lips.
Ragnar, absorbed in his training, ignored everything else. His focus remained on one thing that mattered.
Increased mana meant increased strength—the only currency that mattered in the pursuit of his lifelong dream.
Chapter End.