Huh, This Isn't Right
01. There was no talent.
It was a hopelessly lacking talent, even for someone born into the empire's most renowned swordsmanship family—not some other country. It was a clichéd story. The second son, overshadowed by overly brilliant siblings or sisters, drowning in an inferiority complex and throwing himself into excessive training only to become a wreck.
Only, the boy wasn't the second son; he was the youngest, which made it slightly different.
"Tch…."
Regardless, getting angry about it was pointless. It had already been sixteen years since the boy reincarnated.
To get to the point: the boy was a reincarnator.
Alan Edgar von Mueller. That was the name the boy was called in this world.
The son of one of the empire's top noble houses, even among the continent's largest and most powerful empire. That was the status held by the boy named Alan Edgar von Mueller.
"…I wish I'd fallen into a Murim novel instead."
It was something Alan always muttered after realizing this was a fantasy world. Even if it was dangerous, at least he knew how to deal with Murim worlds. But in a fantasy world he only knew at a surface level, he had no clue what to do.
At least this world had a region that could be called the East, so he could somewhat apply his Murim knowledge. But still…
"…Agh, my head."
Just looking at novels made his head throb, and with nothing else to do for fun besides reading books.
He didn't particularly like riding horses, nor did he enjoy swinging a sword. You could fall off a horse and get hurt, or get sliced while swinging a blade.
Avoiding dangerous things limited his options, and the safest was reading books. But every one he picked was thick enough to trigger a migraine.
Alan genuinely wanted to shout that the real novelists were heretics and strike their heads with lightning.
"Should I just… write one myself…?"
But would it even work? Honestly, fantasy and Murim only shared the equation of ki = mana. Sure, fantasy concepts like swordsmanship, aura, and aura blades had some parallels in Murim, but they didn't match one-to-one perfectly.
"Am I overthinking it…."
Alan let out a deep sigh. Just then, a knock echoed at his door.
"Young Master Alan, it's time for your morning training."
"Not going."
"The Duke will be supervising personally today."
'Damn it.'
Swallowing a curse under his breath, Alan got up.
"Fine. I'll go out, happy?"
Why did his father have to pick today of all days?
Alan sighed heavily.
"I'll just get yelled at again."
He knew exactly what kind of lecture awaited him today. Reincarnated as the son of a swordsmanship dynasty, it was an unavoidable fate.
With another sigh, Alan left his room.
The Mueller Ducal House was one of the empire's most prestigious families.
One of the three ducal houses called the pillars supporting the empire, famed for producing knights renowned as strong swords. That was House Mueller, and Alan Edgar von Mueller was its youngest son.
"He still shows up for training, at least."
In the center of the training grounds stood a dignified middle-aged man, hand resting on a massive greatsword, waiting for his son. Even in casual clothes without armor, an overwhelming aura of dominance emanated from him. A normal person would cower just meeting his gaze. This was the master of House Mueller, the Sword KingGert Edwin von Mueller.
"…Alan."
His voice calling the name boomed like thunder in Alan's ears. No matter how many times he heard it, his father's voice—the Duke of Mueller's—always felt like a reprimand.
The Duke, hand on his greatsword, looked down at Alan. Regret filled his eyes.
"Yes, Father."
"You've been skipping sword training more frequently."
The first words alone choked the air. Knowing full well it was the question Alan hated most, the Duke still stared down, demanding an answer.
A brief silence. Then Alan spoke.
"I have an older sister and brother above me. No point practicing swordsmanship that never improves—there's no meaning in more training."
The Duke's eyebrow twitched.
It was true Alan lacked any real talent, even as the youngest son of a sword dynasty. Of course, inheriting Mueller blood gave him average skill at least. The problem was that it fell short of what the house knights—or the Duke himself—expected.
And Alan resented that.
'As long as I can swing it enough to protect myself, what more do they want?'
Alan wasn't native to this world to begin with. He'd been an ordinary Korean webnovel writer, unfairly killed by an isekai truck and reincarnated here.
For Alan, who just wanted a normal life, the Duke demanding he learn the sword was especially grating. In a world where grabbing a sword meant risking death by blade at any moment.
You could die without a sword too, but at least it beat dying as some knight wannabe who gripped one and got cut down.
"No talent to back it up anyway—what's the point of learning the sword?"
"That's no excuse to neglect training. How do you expect to achieve anything without even proper effort?"
"One talentless guy skipping won't change a thing."
"…Alan."
"I hate the sword."
He didn't even like being dropped into this world. Being born the son of a noble house— a ducal house, no less—was fine, but why a sword family instead of a magic one?
If it'd been a magic house, he'd have accepted even a gender-swap happily.
He'd never wanted to hold a sword, yet forced from childhood, he'd swung it this long—that was patience enough.
"I'm sixteen now, Father. I have the right to decide my path."
"Have you forgotten what kind of house we are?"
"A swordsmanship dynasty."
Or the Iron-Blood Sword House. In other words, reincarnated into a sword family so harsh it earned that name.
Alan didn't like it.
"Mere self-defense swordsmanship won't protect you. As a member of the house, your life is always at risk…."
"…I still hate it."
"This concerns your life."
The Duke worried for his youngest. With his wife away at the main estate for recovery, he couldn't bear facing her wrath if anything happened to Alan.
The Duke continued.
"And your enrollment at the academy is confirmed. As a Mueller, shouldn't you have skills that hold up anywhere?"
Alan didn't reply.
As long as he had enough swordplay to protect himself, why suffer more grueling training? He had escorts anyway.
And against unbeatable foes, running was right—not dying pointlessly.
But one word caught his ear.
"…The academy?"
"I've mentioned it repeatedly lately."
Meeting the Duke's gaze, Alan scratched his head.
"Alan. Are you listening?"
"I am."
"As a Mueller, you'll naturally enter the knight division…."
"Not going."
"Alan!"
The Duke's roar echoed across the training grounds.
"You refuse the knight's calling?!"
"Yes."
Alan meant it. Sure, dying heroically as a brave knight might be fine. But only with talent and a shining future guaranteed.
Born without talent, Alan naturally had no desire to be a knight.
"I'll write instead."
The Duke's face crumpled at Alan's words.
It was a bombshell.
The youngest of House Mueller declaring a pen over a sword was a huge deal. Mueller children, regardless of gender, mostly became knights.
That was why the Duke looked shocked.
"Alan. Do you mean it?"
"Yes."
The Duke dropped his gaze from his son.
He knew Alan disliked sword training. Knew his talent paled next to his siblings.
But abandoning the sword for a pen? He hadn't expected Alan to declare it to his face.
"Really?"
"Yes."
It went beyond mere dislike for the sword. Mueller had produced mages before, but neither knight nor mage—choosing the pen meant writer.
A heavy silence fell between the Duke and Alan.
'Ah, I went and said it.'
Alan's father's expression was ominous, he thought. Terrifying what might come next.
Even if he casually picked up the greatsword plunged into the ground right now, Alan had no defense.
Not a knight, not a mage. Choosing the pen meant becoming a writer.
House Mueller, producer of countless knights, had never had a literary figure.
"…If that's truly your will."
The Duke spoke.
"Do as you wish."
"Father…?"
The unexpected response stunned Alan—and the knights waiting on the grounds.
The Duke added,
"However, bearing the Mueller name means mediocrity won't be tolerated."
A chill ran down Alan's spine, an ominous feeling.
He met the Duke's eyes.
"Become the continent's greatest literary figure. If you won't walk the path of the sword, make your name echo as a grand master known to all."
The Duke declared firmly.
"Can you do it?"
Alan's face hardened.
'Huh, this reaction isn't right…?'