Reincarnation of the Swordmaster Chapter 1

Prologue – The Hero

He first held a sword in his hands when he was ten years old. It was his sister who threw him a wooden stick as a birthday gift. It was hardly a proper wooden sword, with branches barely trimmed and splinters that pricked his palms every time he grasped it.

He swung it regardless.

It’s not that he neglected his daily life. He ate on time and slept sufficiently. Whenever his parents asked for help with work, he didn’t refuse.

But any other time he had, he devoted to the sword. He didn’t rest, nor did he partake in games like other children did.

Even when his parents scolded his sister for gifting him such a thing, he didn’t care. He just trained until his palms were swollen and about to burst.

As one year and then two years passed, his parents began to acknowledge him. They suggested he look beyond their small world. With no reason to refuse, he happily agreed.

Thus, he enrolled in the academy that had produced the great swordsman Heinber. There too, he swung his sword.

Four years at the academy.

He became well-known there. Notorious, one might say, as students whispered about the eccentric who trained all day. They labelled him a fool—a screw loose.

And he had another nickname.

The blockhead.

He was slow. Despite training harder than anyone, he was unceivably weak. Even nearing graduation, he frequently lost to those who had been at the academy for less than a year.

His peers mocked him. Juniors looked down on him. Seniors despised him. Still, he continued to swing his sword.

Finally, upon completing his education, he returned home.

When his jubilant parents asked what he had achieved, he simply answered, nothing had changed. His parents despaired.

But as always, he behaved the same.

Five years passed, and the boy had now become a young man.

Someone had once said, “Spend ten years on one thing, and you can become a master.” Clearly, that didn’t apply to him. He remained slow and weak, his skill barely improving by a trivial amount. Eventually, his parents told him to give up and just take over the family business.

However, he kept swinging his sword, and finally, his efforts showed some results.

He passed the Imperial Guard Level 9 exam.

A product of eleven long years of training. A test that street thugs could pass with just two or three years of training. Any ordinary person would have sunk into despair and considered ending their life, but he didn’t care. He just kept on swinging his sword.

He didn’t slack off in his duties as a guard. His relationships with colleagues weren’t bad either. He went about his duties as if he were anyone else. One day, the higher-ups even awarded him a plaque declaring him a model guard, but he carelessly tossed it aside and continued to swing his sword.

Ten more years passed.

As the earth shifted and mountains crumbled with time, he was promoted to patrol chief. But he remained unchanged.

One day, news came from the west of the empire that a dragon had appeared, setting the granary lands ablaze. Numerous swordsmen and magicians moved in response.

Two years of fighting later, the dragon was slain. The dragon slayer received the title of baron and managed his lands abundantly.

But, he kept on swinging his sword.

Another ten years passed.

He became captain of the guards. People told him to take it easy, wondering if it wasn’t time he started being careful with his body. He just smiled and moved his sword.

Then, rumors spread that a Demon King had appeared, the first in three hundred years. Those known for their swordsmanship left on journeys, and some of his guards deserted.

After ten years of conflict, the Demon King was defeated. The hero proclaimed peace with the Demon King’s head in his hands. The hero married the princess and they lived happily ever after.

The hero and the princess…

On the day he was married, blessed by all, he was wielding a sword.

Ten years later.

After the Dragon Slayer and the Hero, numerous heroes emerged. The Lord of the Underworld, the King of the East, the Queen of the North Sea, the Keeper of the Deep Forest, the Master of the Sword Reaching the Skies.

Countless heroes shook the world and ignited the hearts of many men. The age of adventure and heroes had begun.

He silently swung his sword amidst the upheavals of the era.

Now, there was no one who tsked at him. No one who scorned him. Only respect and affection remained.

Twenty years.

He retired from his position as the captain of the guard. His body had aged, no longer capable of fulfilling his duties.

The empire had provided him with a considerable amount of money and a house. He could hire a maid with that money and spend his old age comfortably. It would have been nice to sit in a rocking chair, watching the antics of children.

But he wielded his sword.

His body was old and frail, hardly able to move properly. It was an age more suited for a cane than a sword. Breathing grew labored after fifty movements, and his whole body would be exhausted after a hundred. Yet, he did not stop.

Ten more years passed.

By the time the people of his era had slept beneath the earth, and the world began to forget his existence.

He swung his sword.


With wrinkled hands, he struck down with his sword. Overpowered, he fell. Using the sword as a cane, he barely managed to stand up. Gripping the sword with both hands, he resumed his stance. And once more. He fell but lifted himself up again.

Suddenly, he thought, why go to such lengths?

He had no talent. He had practiced the sword all his life, but never even reached mediocrity. He had faced discouragement and countless jeers. But still, he never let go of his sword.

He simply loved the sword.

Throughout his life, he watched his sword rust and creak as if it were about to crumble.

My sword, my everything.


A smile appeared on his wrinkled lips. What does it matter? As you age, you really do start to overthink.

As always, he swung his sword indifferently. The movements, ingrained in his body after hundreds of thousands of repetitions, unfolded.

But the outcome was different.


The swung sword cleaved the air with a pure white flame. For the first time, surprise reflected in his eyes.

A flickering aura as though it could burn anything. Aura Blade.

A realm reached by only ten throughout the vast empire. A name revered by all.


“Cough, cough!”

But the brilliant flame died out. He dropped his sword and coughed up blood. Dark red liquid splattered onto his hand. He laughed bitterly.

His life was at its end. He could feel it instinctively. To have his life end less than a day after awakening the aura. Like the last flame burning out his life.

He slowly collapsed to the ground.

Strength drained from his body, his vision blurred, and his mind grew hazy. Amidst the fog, his eyes were fixed on his sword, intent on imprinting its image one last time.

He closed his eyes.

Then he opened them again.

A wooden stick was in sight. So poorly maintained, it looked more like a branch than a stick.

He was startled as he stood up, startled by how light his body felt. As he felt his arms, they felt like those of a young child, smooth and supple.


His voice was unrecognizable—thin and light, characteristic of a child. He was bewildered as he looked around, then he saw a stick.

It was vague and long forgotten, yet recognizable at first sight. My sword. The first sword he had ever held. Slowly, he reached out his hand. As he grasped it, a familiar roughness was felt.

He picked up the sword.

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