Born Beneath the Crimson Moon
The year Adolf Kareha entered the world, the empire’s moon held a mysterious crimson light.
The old folk who saw that red moon shook their heads and called it an ill omen, while the court mages of the capital each offered their own interpretations and spread the rumors farther still. Yet none of them knew the truth. No one in the world could have guessed that another life already nested inside the destiny of that newborn child.
He grew as any child does—crying at times, laughing at others. But on the nights he lay awake, vague memories circling through his mind tormented him. Those recollections felt vivid yet formless, floating in the air like letters scattered across a blank white page. As he grew older, he would tilt his head whenever those strange visions returned.
“Mother, I once heard a story like this,” young Adolf Kareha said carefully one day. He was only eight, seated in a chair some distance from her.
His mother was a gentle woman with blue eyes and a soft smile. Behind that smile, however, a constant worry always lingered. She set her teacup down slowly and looked at her son.
“What sort of story?” she asked evenly.
Adolf frowned slightly and stared into empty space. He wanted to speak of the half-formed scenes that rose in his mind—the great sword, the figure of the Demon King, the moment the crowds cheered—but they felt like fantasies far removed from reality. At last he parted his lips.
“Ah, just… something like a legend. The Demon King appears, a hero appears, and the hero saves the world.”
His mother smiled gently and nodded.
“That’s an old tale that’s been told for generations. Why the sudden curiosity?”
The boy was silent for a while. He tried to grasp the strange voice that still echoed in his ears, but it would not come clearly. Disappointed, he lowered his head. His mother stroked his hair with affection and returned to her tea.
Several years later, on a day when he turned ten, Adolf Kareha was leafing through old volumes in the library when his eyes stopped on a particular passage. It belonged to a strange document titled The Savior of the Heavenly Sword. The book was ancient; pages were torn in places, and the print had faded until it was nearly illegible. Yet the few sentences that caught his eye struck his heart with perfect clarity. They recorded the year of the hero’s birth and the year the Demon King’s resurrection was foretold, written as though they were prophecy.
In that instant the memories that had long circled his mind flared and linked into one unbroken chain.
“This… is part of the novel I read in my previous life.”
He crouched in a deserted corner of the library and whispered the words under his breath. The mildew rising from the pages, the paper so brittle it seemed ready to crumble, the faint scent of old ink—all of it stirred a strange nostalgia in him. Yet the young boy’s heart pounded hard. The knowledge he had carried from his past life and the suspicion that this world was the very stage of that novel drove deep into his thoughts.
Adolf squeezed his eyes shut and steadied his breathing. Young as he was, he instinctively accepted the absurd fate that had fallen upon him. If this world was identical to the novel he knew, then perhaps he could stop or alter the great events soon to come. A faint hope took root in one corner of his heart.
Not long afterward, however, he was forced to confront a shocking truth. The major events of history were unfolding earlier than he had expected. In the novel the main story should not have begun for another twenty years, yet by his calculations everything was already advancing faster. He calculated, organized, and checked again. The result never changed. A discrepancy of roughly twenty years existed.
“How could this… No—perhaps this is actually for the better?”
He exhaled and pressed his fingers firmly against the yellowed page, as though the answer might lie within the paper itself. He could confide this to no one. That he carried memories of a previous life, and that this world had sprung from a novel, was a secret more precious than his own life. He resolved to hide himself—to remain unnoticed by others while gathering enough strength and knowledge to prepare for the future.
He muttered as if speaking only to himself.
“The Demon King will appear someday. Just as in the novel, this world will have its Demon King. And when he does, a hero will be needed.”
According to the book, the Demon King’s resurrection was inevitable, and only the hero and his bloodline could defeat him. Yet the hero had not even been born, and the terror that the destined path might already be twisting in every direction seized him.
After leaving the library he scarcely slept for days.
“I want to learn Father’s swordsmanship.”
At breakfast the boy’s words made his father declare that the time had come, and the lessons began. By day he was an ordinary ten-year-old learning the sword, reading books, and receiving the empire’s public education. By night he woke alone near midnight, lit a candle, and wrote the novel’s memories into a notebook. Between the dense lines of blue ink his fingertips trembled.
As he remembered it, the hero’s desperate struggle in the novel ended in victory—but only at the cost of countless lives across the continent.
“I cannot simply watch this world fall apart.”
In his eyes an unavoidable fear flickered like a young light. At the same time a look of resolve appeared, for the novel he had once read—The Savior of the Heavenly Sword—now felt like foresight granted to him alone.
A month later news arrived of a massive monster outbreak in the empire’s border regions. Word that imperial troops had been dispatched to suppress it shook noble society, and the common people trembled with unease. When Adolf heard the report he recognized it at once as the harbinger of an event he had seen in the novel.
“The appearance of monsters. And the darkness lurking behind them… yes, that was it.”
The boy repeated the fact in a small voice. Yet there was almost nothing a mere ten-year-old could do. He needed power. He needed knowledge. And above all he realized he needed rank and authority enough to persuade others.
So he made his decision. When he grew a little older he would display military talent and win the empire’s recognition. He would become someone whose voice could be heard at the moment it was truly needed.
The young boy told not even his parents of this secret. He simply studied harder than any of his peers and trained in swordsmanship with greater precision. He buried himself in the library, hunting through histories and war records, and even reached for books on magic. People began calling him a gifted child and praised him, yet inwardly he drove himself harder still.
“This is not enough… When the Demon King appears someday, I will need a way to stop him.”
He leafed through old maps and treatises on strategy, storing in his mind the geography of the empire’s fringes and the political situations beyond its borders, one piece at a time. With the composure of an adult he calmly observed everything around him and absorbed knowledge and information. Yet in one corner of his heart doubt and fear never left him. What if the future he knew was completely wrong? Or what if something had already gone so far awry that the hero would never be born? He imagined catastrophes beyond description, and that terror only drove him to work harder.
Time passed, and his twelfth birthday came and went. The boy who had once been a child now spoke with a calm, cold manner. At social gatherings he often exchanged opinions with the sons of nobles and left them astonished. When a twelve-year-old’s explanations of military strategy overwhelmed the adults present, people began to take notice of him.
“That boy is no ordinary child.”
An aging general set down his wine cup and spoke with a strange look in his eyes; the officers around him nodded. Outwardly Adolf appeared serene, yet inside he remained constantly tense, as though bracing for a storm that might break at any moment. He could not be certain when the Demon King of whom he had only heard would appear, nor was there any guarantee the creature would arrive at the time the novel had foretold. If history had already twisted because of him, the Demon King might emerge sooner—or far worse. That anxiety never left him. Yet it was precisely that anxiety and fear that kept him moving forward. He sought to grow stronger, to climb higher, to gain the power to move more people. Only then, he believed, could he do something that might save this world.
When he turned fifteen he received the chance to take part in a small-scale imperial battle. It was a kind of training program that gathered young officer candidates from noble houses and gave them real combat experience. Under ordinary circumstances he would never have been considered, but Adolf Kareha’s exceptional strategic sense had already become a topic of discussion within the military, and even the emperor’s close advisors had heard the rumors.
“The scale of this engagement is not large, but it should be more than enough for gaining practical experience.”
The general gathered the noble youths and spoke in a stern voice. Adolf still held only the lowest rank, yet he had been given the opportunity to lead a portion of the troops. It was the chance he had fiercely desired—so that he might test his knowledge in actual battle and acquire the combat sense needed for the greater threats still to come.