> "In life, I was a sword. In death, I have become the scabbard for something greater."
— ???, The Forgotten Blade
Year: 1627 — Earth, Final Battle of the Crimson Plateau
The battlefield was a canvas of smoke and steel, drenched in blood and desperation.
Steel clashed against steel. Screams echoed. Magic flickered like dying stars in the skies above. Among the fallen, a single figure stood tall—a man whose name was feared even by kings.
His sword moved like breath. Swift. Absolute.
He was the Sovereign Blade, the one whispered about in the scrolls of both warlords and monks. No name, only titles.
The Last Sword Saint.
With a thousand scars and eyes like dusk, he carved through knights, mages, and beasts alike. A hundred years of war, of solitude, of cold steel and colder resolve—it all ended today.
And yet…
Even legends bleed.
He stood impaled by a dozen blades. Betrayed not by skill, but time. His body broken, his breath shallow, he gazed skyward as fire rained from the heavens.
"A fitting end," he whispered with a defiant smirk. "One I forged myself."
The world faded into silence.
Death took him.
Or so he thought.
---
Year: ??? — Sylveria Kingdom, Western Slums
Pain. Hunger. Cold. These were his companions now.
He awoke not to honor or glory, but the stench of rot and desperation. A dingy alley. Rats skittering by. A crowd of gaunt children and broken drunkards. The scent of piss and sorrow hung in the air like a curse.
He blinked—his body small. Weak. Soft.
"What… the hell?" he muttered, or tried to. His voice was higher. Younger.
A cracked mirror on the ground showed a boy of eight. Long, silver-white hair. Bright violet eyes glowing faintly beneath soot-covered lashes. Long ears—elven.
Half-human, half-elf. But those eyes…
They held something deeper. Wiser. A soul not of this world.
Then—like a floodgate breaking—memories that were not his crashed into him.
Knives in the dark. Poisoned lips. Blood on cobblestones.
Names, missions, screams. "The Phantom Spider," they called him.
An assassin raised from infancy. Silent. Efficient. Unwanted.
His name: Jorik Vaelgard.
Bastard son of Malric Sythros, the ruthless patriarch of the House of Sythros—one of the most powerful elven noble lines in the Sylveria Kingdom. A name that brought both prestige and peril.
Jorik had been discarded. Hidden in the slums. Used like a shadow. Forgotten like a corpse.
But now… the soul within this body was no longer a trained killer-child, but a legendary swordsman from Earth.
He clenched his fist.
This body was frail. But the fire in his soul? Unchanged. Unyielding.
"I see," he murmured, voice now firm, laced with scorn and understanding. "So fate has given me a new game board."
He stood up, ignoring the stiffness of atrophied limbs and the stares of beggars.
"Jorik Vaelgard, huh? A phantom of the slums."
He looked up at the cloudy sky, where sunlight struggled to break through. In that moment, he made a vow.
> "I will live this life free. No chains of war, no shadows of death. Not a sword for kings. Not a dagger in the dark. I will carve a new path—my path."
Then—like an echo from the void—he heard it.
A voice. Calm, mechanical, ancient.
> [System Installation Complete.]
[Soul Gear Awakened: "Chrono-Banisher: Eclipsing Fang of Ruin"]
In his hand, space twisted. Reality bent.
A sleek obsidian and silver shortsword appeared in a burst of spatial distortion. Constellations moved on its blade. A hum of time and ruin radiated from its edge.
His violet eyes narrowed.
"A Soul Gear?" He grinned.
And the world would soon remember the name Jorik Vaelgard.
Not as a bastard.
Not as a phantom.
But as a King in the making.
---
> Thus begins the legend of a swordsman reborn as a cursed noble child—armed with forbidden power, haunted by memories, and destined to sever fate itself.