The moon stood tall in the sky. However, unlike the one from his original world, this moon was bathed in a deep, unsettling crimson hue. It hung there like an omen, bleeding its eerie radiance across the entire land, turning rooftops, trees, and even the air itself a shade of haunted red.
But William was in his room, where he had been since the early hours of the afternoon.
He sat cross-legged on the wooden floor, surrounded by open books scattered like fallen leaves. Each book lay propped open to a different page, illuminated by a dim candle that flickered gently near his side. The flame cast a small circle of light around him, its glow weak but warm—a fragile guardian against the unsettling darkness pressing in through the corners of the room.
This new world he had reincarnated into was... intriguing, to say the least.
With his head bowed, William silently absorbed the pages before him. His thin fingers turned each page with quiet precision, as though afraid of disrupting the solemn air that hung in the room.
Martial artists existed in this world, just as they had in his previous one. Fighters, warriors—some things never changed. But the systems were different. The rankings, the rules, the very foundation of strength here followed a path unfamiliar to him.
According to the text in front of him, strength was categorized in tiers, from the weakest to the most divine. The hierarchy read:
Human – a regular person devoid of any traits or powers. This was his current state. Weak. Defenseless. A lamb among wolves.
Then came Awakened, followed by Vessel, Revenant, Ascended, Archon, and finally—Saint.
Saint... the apex of power in this world.
But as noted by the scribbled commentary in the book margins, Saints were almost mythical. Achieving that level wasn't a matter of skill or raw power—it was something the world granted rarely and only to the fortunate. A gift of fate.
William scoffed.
Luck? He didn't believe in that nonsense. Never had. He had lived, fought, and died by his own decisions—good or bad.
Still, he continued reading, a storm of thoughts brewing in his mind. He came across records of his family—the Alarics.
A noble household in name, but nothing more.
Their reputation had withered to disgrace. His father, the current head, was a Revenant—a rank that should command respect. Yet, among the other noble families, it was seen as... laughable.
A Revenant at the helm? No wonder the Alarics are treated like insects. Even the servants wear their disdain like badges.
William shut the book gently and exhaled. His back ached, his body—this frail shell of flesh—wasn't used to long hours of study, nor the mental weight of adapting to an unfamiliar world.
He stood slowly, every movement a conscious effort, and shuffled toward his bed. The mattress was old, the frame creaked under his weight, but it offered the illusion of comfort. He sank into it, resting his head on the coarse pillow.
"That's enough information gathering for today..."
With that, William let the warm pull of sleep seize him, and the flickering candle finally died out.
---
Tap! Tap!
A loud knock echoed through the room. Before William could even stir properly, a sharp slap struck his back.
"Agh!" His breath caught from the pain. For a body as fragile as his... it was like being hit with a brick.
"Young Lord, how dare you litter your room like a pig!"
William's eyes opened slowly, unwillingly, filled with grogginess and fresh irritation. The pain on his back still throbbed as he sat upright. He blinked a few times and squinted at the silhouette standing over him.
The figure stepped into the morning light.
A boy no older than twenty. Dressed in pitch-black garb—a slave's uniform. His face wore a look of arrogance that didn't match his station. His eyes, narrowed in disdain, scanned the room with self-importance.
William's gaze sharpened.
'This bastard again...'
His mind reached back into the memories of the boy whose life he now owned. This particular individual had been a bully—a leech feeding on the weakness of Young Lord Alaric. A slave in title, but clearly the one in control.
'How pathetic... disrespected by his own slave. Just how spineless was this boy?'
Still reclining against the headrest of the bed, William met the boy's gaze with a new expression—skepticism, mixed with a faint smirk.
"What was your name again?"
The slave gritted his teeth, visibly irritated.
"I'm Nero! Stop acting like you forgot my name, stupid!"
William gave a lazy shrug.
"Sorry. I don't usually remember the names of useless people. Must've slipped."
Nero's face contorted with rage. He stormed toward the bed, grabbing William by the shirt collar.
"Have you forgotten how you got pounded the last time you talked to me this way?!"
William rolled his eyes.
'Disrespected by your own slave. Smooth move, sorcerer.'
He didn't resist. Not because of fear—but because he didn't need to.
"Oh yes, just like last time. I'm still too weak to beat you..."
His voice dropped in tone, cold and calculated.
"But I dare you to hit me."
Without warning, William spat—his saliva landing squarely on Nero's lips.
The reaction was immediate. Nero's face twisted in fury, but his fists remained still. Something had changed. Something in William's tone—his eyes—froze the boy in place.
"My father is a Revenant." William said calmly. "I'm sure he'd love to hear this little tale. Especially since the mansion's been so... quiet lately."
That hesitation. It flashed in Nero's eyes like a stutter in his soul.
"You won't do that! Where's your honour as an Alaric?!"
A desperate lie. A grasp for control.
William chuckled softly.
He grabbed Nero by the collar and pulled him in until their foreheads nearly touched. His voice was low, a whisper edged in steel.
"There is no honour among dogs... is there?"
The words sank in like venom.
Nero's breath caught. His posture stiffened. For the first time, he felt it—fear. Not of violence, but of change. Something about the young Lord had shifted. The red eyes weren't just angry—they were alive. Cold. Ready to kill.
William let him go, giving him a slight push backward. Nero stumbled, wide-eyed.
"Also, bastard—" William added, adjusting his shirt. "I didn't receive dinner last night. Want me to include that in my report too?"
Nero shook his head quickly. The arrogance on his face had vanished.
"No, please don't, Young Lord! I'll bring food right away!"
"Double my usual intake. And one more thing—" William leaned forward slightly. "Bring me a wooden sword."
The request made Nero pause. His face twisted in confusion. It was public knowledge—the young Lord had no talent for martial arts. His future was bleak at best.
"A... sword?" Nero repeated, more to himself than anyone else.
But William knew.
He was going to learn. No matter what this frail body claimed, he would force it to obey. He would wield the blade again. Break limits. Rewrite his fate. And burn his name into this world, even if it shattered him in the process.