Chapter 3 — The Land Remembers

The days bled together in a rhythm sharp as a blade’s edge. Mornings came cooler now, the sun slower to rise and the light softer as it spilled over the ridges of the mountains. Autumn had begun to settle its quiet claim on the valley—still warm enough for comfort, but each breeze carried the first hints of something colder lurking on the horizon.

My home sat between the jagged spine of the mountains and the whispering forest. From the tower window, I could see where the trees stretched like a dark sea to the north, and where the peaks stood sentinel beyond them, streaked faintly with lingering summer snow. The manor was sturdy stone and timber, the kind that held heat well enough to keep the night air at bay. Beyond the walls, the river ran steady, carrying fallen leaves downstream in swirling ribbons of red and gold.

To the north, dense woodland rolled into untouched forest—a hunter’s paradise to most, but to me, it was something far more. In my past life, iron veins had been discovered deep in that ridge, rich and untouched for decades. Nobles paid fortunes for a fraction of what lay beneath my feet now.

To the east, the river twisted toward fertile lowlands. In a few years, merchants would fight for rights to build mills and docks there. I remembered the trade routes that would eventually cut through these lands, the caravans that once lined these banks with banners and noise.

To the west, the mountain paths narrowed into dangerous passes—long abandoned by traders because of old bandit routes. But I knew where those routes led. And I knew what lay hidden along them: a cavern system that once became a fortress mine, a lifeblood of wealth for western dukes in my first life.

To the south, my family’s farmlands stretched toward the village, the soil rich and heavy with autumn. These were lands built for survival, but with the right hands… they’d be lands built for dominion.

This land had always been valuable. I’d just never taken it for myself before.

It was the 988th year of the Empire—the first of my second life. And this time, the world would not move faster than me.

Training became the heartbeat of my days. Sword drills in the cool morning air, breathing and mana work beneath the rising moon. The nights were lengthening—just enough to notice. The warmth of summer was still here, but it clung to the edges of the day like something reluctant to leave.

Steel was easy. My body, though still that of a boy, carried the memory of how to move, how to strike, how to kill. But magic was different. Mana was stubborn, a river trapped in a narrow streambed. I pushed it until it ached, forcing it to flow a little wider each night. Some evenings it responded, warm and eager. Other nights it bit back, punishing me for impatience.

The servants had begun whispering about the light from my room burning long after the rest of the manor slept. A few even knocked on my door. I ignored them.

If I’m going to cut down an empire, I can’t afford to be weaker than I was before.

A week later, I found myself back in the same forest clearing — the one where the Echo had first stirred beneath my feet. The air was sharper now, edged with the promise of frost. Red and gold leaves carpeted the ground, whispering as the wind passed through.

I knelt again where the pulse had once been strongest.

It was still there—faint, but changed. The lingering thrum of power beneath the soil no longer felt raw; it had been shaped. The Echo hummed like a memory etched too deep, its resonance folded and carved with purpose. When my mana reached for it, the air trembled—thin lines of light shimmered beneath the frost, forming patterns too precise to be chance. Not wild magic. Not a wandering hedge mage. Someone had written their will into the world itself.

Whoever it was… they’d returned — and left their mark behind.

You’re testing me, aren’t you?

The trees shivered as a breeze passed through. No figure stepped forward. No voice answered. But I didn’t need to see them to understand: this wasn’t a coincidence.

Watch me then. But know this — lions bare their fangs.

She found me on the way home.

Seraphine came down the path at an easy run, her boots kicking up small piles of fallen leaves. Her auburn hair caught what light remained from the late afternoon, and her green eyes were bright and lively in a way only childhood allows. She smiled the way she always used to when things were simpler—before betrayal and blood and all the years that only I remembered.

“You’re out here again,” she said between breaths, cheeks flushed from the run.

“Morning,” I replied, though the sun was already beginning to sink lower.

“You’ve been avoiding everyone,” she accused lightly. “Even me.”

Because when I see you, I see the blade I didn’t see coming.

“I’ve been training,” I said instead.

“You’re always training,” she murmured. Then, after a pause, her voice softened. “You never used to hide behind that excuse.”

I glanced at her, but she only smiled—the kind of smile that used to reach her eyes, but didn’t anymore.

“You’ve changed,” she said quietly. “Not just the way you talk. The way you listen. It’s like… you’re hearing something the rest of us can’t.”

“Maybe I am.”

She frowned a little, searching my face for something familiar. “I miss when you used to tell me what you were thinking.”

“You wouldn’t want to know,” I said.

“I’d still listen.”

There was a quiet stretch of road between us and the manor gates. She walked beside me without saying more, but I could feel it in the way she stole glances at me—there were words pressing against her lips, the kind that never quite found their way out.

As the manor came into view, Elias was already waiting at the edge of the yard, wooden sword propped against his shoulder, that familiar determined look in his eyes. Seraphine’s steps slowed just a fraction.

“You’re going to train with him again, aren’t you?” she asked softly.

I nodded.

She tried to smile, but it faltered halfway. “Then… I guess I’ll see you another time.”

She lingered after the words left her mouth, as if hoping I’d say something to stop her. Her green eyes shifted—first toward Elias, then back to me. There was something small and tight in her expression, something between frustration and sadness. She bit her lower lip, a habit she’d never lost even years later.

“You’ve changed lately,” she murmured. Not an accusation. A quiet confession. “Even when we’re together, it feels like you’re somewhere else.”

She wanted to ask what I was hiding. She wanted to demand why I’d built a wall she couldn’t see through. But Seraphine had never been good with questions that might lead to answers she didn’t want. So she smiled instead—soft, brittle, the kind of smile people wear when they don’t know whether to hold on or let go.

You don’t understand yet. And part of me hopes you never will.

“I’ll see you later, Ardyn,” she said finally, her voice steadier than her eyes. Her braid caught the dying sunlight as she turned toward the village road. Each step away sounded louder than it should have against the fallen leaves.

I stood where I was, the silence settling like ash. There were a hundred things I could have said—things the boy she once knew might have said. But I wasn’t that boy anymore.

Not this time.

Elias straightened as I approached, that faint grin growing into something sharper. His hair was a dark chestnut brown, wind-tousled, and his cheeks were flushed from the cold. His hands bore the light scars of a boy who trained with discipline. The weight in my chest settled into something easier to carry. Training didn’t ask questions. It didn’t linger. It just waited for the next strike.

Elias trained like the season itself—steady, crisp, and relentless. His hands were roughened from practice, his breath fogging faintly in the cooling air. We worked behind the stables, away from curious eyes, with wooden blades and weighted staves.

I taught him to move like a whisper—how to make silence his ally. The Black Legion I once commanded had marched under banners and sunlight. The Shadow Legion would move in darkness, unseen and unstoppable.

“Again,”I ordered.

Elias didn’t hesitate. He never did.

The next strike came faster—stance narrower, cleaner, his blade angled just shy of perfect form. The crack of wood on wood split the morning air, echoing through the yard like the memory of steel on steel. For a boy his age, his movements carried a veteran’s intent—rough but relentless.

“Your guard’s too high,”I said, parrying hard enough to jar his arms. “Don’t chase the blade—control the rhythm. Let your opponent move where you want them.”

He adjusted mid-step, a quick recovery. Good. Adaptation was the heartbeat of survival.

“Again!”

He lunged, and I shifted my footing, forcing him to overextend. His boots scraped the dirt, and I pressed forward one step at a time. “Hold your line!” I barked. “A fighter who retreats without purpose is already dead!”

Elias gritted his teeth, digging in. His shoulders trembled, but he anchored himself—meeting my next strike head-on. The sound was thunder between us.

“Better,” I said, lowering my sword just long enough to make him think he’d earned a reprieve. Then I came at him again, faster, harder. “Anticipate! Read my weight, not my weapon!”

He barely managed the parry this time, sparks of defiance lighting behind his eyes.

Good. That’s what I wanted.

The tempo rose. Dust swirled around us, catching the morning light as our wooden blades collided in brutal rhythm. Elias’s breathing grew ragged, his motions raw but sharpened by desperation.

“Don’t lose your focus,” I snapped. “Your sword listens to your mind—if that falters, you die with it!”

He pivoted sharply, countering with a clean strike that nearly caught my shoulder. I smiled—brief, approving. For a heartbeat, he wasn’t a boy anymore. He was a soldier.

I stepped back and raised my hand. “Again,” I said, quieter now.

He raised his sword before the echo faded.

Good. Hesitation kills faster than any blade.

When he finally dropped to one knee, panting, sweat streaked through the dust on his face. His sword tip rested in the soil, trembling slightly—but his gaze stayed locked on me, unbroken.

That fire. That resolve.

I lowered my wooden sword, the silence heavy between us. “That’s enough for now,” I said, voice low. “But remember this—strength fades. Instinct doesn’t. Feed that fire, Elias… or the world will snuff it out for you.”

The days slid past like falling leaves—steady, unhurried, each one drifting closer to winter’s edge. Training with Elias continued through the evenings, the crack of wooden blades cutting through the cool air as faithfully as the manor bell’s toll. Each swing, each breath, carved a little more of the future I was shaping in silence.

One evening at dinner, Father’s voice was heavier than usual. “There are whispers from the north,” he said, setting his cup down with a dull thud. “Troop movements. A mage sighted in the frostlands. And a noble family gone from their estate.”

In my first life, these ripples came later—months later. I remembered hearing rumors of Imperial patrols carving new checkpoints into other duchies’ lands, claiming it was for the safety of merchants. Safety was always their excuse.

“Do they know who the mage was?” I asked.

“No,” he replied. “But Imperial banners were seen after. They’re already sweeping.”

Sweeping—clearing away anyone who didn’t bow quickly enough.

I nodded, though the weight in my chest didn’t ease. The Empire’s reach was spreading faster than I remembered, its shadow falling where it hadn’t before. I didn’t know who that mage was, or what their power meant—but I knew one thing for certain: when the Empire starts hunting ghosts, it’s never long before the living start burning too.

That night, training bled into darkness. The air had a sharper edge now—not cold enough to bite, but crisp enough to make every breath feel alive. In the rear courtyard of the manor, torchlight flickered against the stone walls, each flame bowing in rhythm with my strikes. Every swing of the blade carved through the stillness—measured, deliberate, alive.

I pushed harder. Each breath came out ragged, each movement heavier, the rhythm between strike and step blurring into one relentless cadence. Steel met air again and again until my shoulders burned and my arms trembled. Sweat rolled down my neck, chilling in the night air, but I didn’t stop.

“Faster,” I muttered under my breath. “Stronger.”

My footwork tightened; my blade sang through the dark in sharp, practiced arcs—high guard to shoulder cut, parry, thrust, pivot. Sparks danced where steel met the Runewood Striking Post, its grain etched with faint sigils that shimmered under torchlight. The enchanted wood absorbed each blow without splintering, releasing a low, resonant hum that filled the courtyard like a war drum in the night.

You have to rise higher, Ardyn.

Every strike was a vow. I wasn’t just training to fight. I was training to never fall again. To carve the weakness from my bones before the world tried to do it for me.

In this lifetime, I would break every limit. I would rise beyond the man I once was.

The resolve burned deep, pulling old memories from where I’d buried them. Another night surfaced—one etched in steel and breath—when my blood first stirred and the world slowed to match my heartbeat.

I was sixteen when I awakened as a Sword Master—a legacy few in all the Empire’s history could claim. Only a handful of bloodlines have ever birthed one, and among them, House Valemont stands among the eldest of noble lines. Each generation strengthens the chance of awakening, the blood remembering its own Aura.

There are said to be three stages of the Sword Master:

The awakening didn’t wound or burn. It simply answered—a surge of clarity, strength, and speed, as though my body remembered a rhythm it had always known. From that day, the world seemed slower, every heartbeat a step within an unseen pattern. Even now, that memory hummed faintly beneath my skin, echoing in every motion.

As the thought faded, the moonlight returned to me—spilling across the courtyard, painting the blade’s edge in silver light. My breath grew rough, uneven, but my focus never wavered.

The silence that followed wasn’t empty. It watched, it waited.

When I lowered my sword, the night shifted—and I felt it again. The pulse.

Not faint this time. Not just a scar left behind. It pressed against the edge of my senses, steady and deliberate.

I looked toward the forest beyond the manor walls. The trees stood silent, their shapes etched in blue against the dim sky.

The Echo wasn’t hiding anymore. It was announcing itself.

Show yourself.

Nothing stirred. No figure stepped out. The pulse lingered, then slipped away—like a shadow retreating into deeper dark.

You’re watching me.

Studying me.

Deciding what I am to you...a Friend or a threat

Back in my room, the mirror reflected a boy’s face—hair loosened from training, a smear of dirt streaked across my cheek. But the eyes staring back at me… they belonged to someone far older. Someone who’d seen too many winters and hadn’t forgotten a single one.

Steam rose from the bath the servants had drawn. I sank into it, the heat seeping into bruises I hadn’t realized were there. For a moment, it almost felt like peace.

It’s still the year 988. The thought lingered as Father’s words echoed in my mind—“Troop movements. A mage in the frostlands. Imperial banners sweeping north.”In my first life, those whispers hadn’t come until months later. Now they were already spreading. The Empire’s shadow was moving faster this time.

My gaze drifted toward the window. Beyond the glass, the moonlight stretched over the manor grounds—over the same gardens where she once laughed. Seraphine. Her name echoed like a whisper I hadn’t meant to say. I could still see the way she used to smile, how her laughter cut through war and worry alike.

For a heartbeat, the warmth of those memories almost reached me. Then I remembered the dagger in my back, the silence that followed, and the look in her eyes as the world bled around us.

I closed my eyes, letting the warmth of the bath fade. Not this time. Love is fleeting. Purpose is survival.

Outside, the wind picked up—rattling the shutters, carrying the scent of rain and turning leaves. Another leaf storm. Autumn drawing toward its heart.

When I finally blew out the candle, darkness folded around me like a cloak. The warmth of the bath faded from my skin, leaving only purpose.

Tomorrow, I’d train harder.
The world won’t wait for me. Not this time.