The Liquor of Reincarnation
Grade: Precious Item
Info: The magnum opus of Chuen Jaryong, the legendary brewer of Zone 3. A celestial spirit infused with the essence of the hidden world.
Effect: Permanently increases mana capacity.
※ Duration: Consumable (Potency peaks within one week of opening).
'That settles the preparations.'
Zien tilted the gourd back and drained the liquid in a single, long draft.
The brew had aged for a century, but it hadn't lost its kick; it was an artifact, after all.
The mana surged through his system, a violent swirl that felt like it might tear him apart from the inside out.
"Now, I'm finally ready to manifest my Magic Tool."
In his past life, a Magic Tool was to a Saber what medicine was to a pharmacist—the absolute fundamental. The potential for growth in a true master was nothing short of staggering.
My Previous Life was the Strongest Sword God
If a Stigma was the prerequisite for power, then what exactly were a Magic Tool and a Magic Art? It could be summed up in one simple metaphor:
The Magic Art is the painting; the Magic Tool is the brush.
A Saber needed their Magic Tool to channel and unleash their unique abilities. Its form was unpredictable, manifesting as a physical extension of the tattoo-like Stigma engraved on their skin.
"I'm glad the connection held."
The faint brown mark on the back of Zien’s hand—a remnant of his old self—began to glow, shifting into the crimson, blade-shaped Stigma of his past life.
It was no exaggeration to say a Saber was defined entirely by their Stigma. Every mark granted different properties to its Magic Tool, creating a brutal divide between "blessed" and "cursed" warriors from the very moment they awakened.
In his life as Evan, the name of his Stigma was...
"Heukhyang."
- I am here, Zien.
The clear voice of a woman in her twenties echoed in the back of his mind.
It was telepathy—a rare occurrence, but powerful Stigmas were capable of communicating with their wielders in this way.
"What is our current assimilation rate?"
Heukhyang answered without a moment's hesitation.
Current Assimilation Rate: 97%
Assimilation.
This was the measure of harmony between a Stigma and its Saber. A rate of 97% would cause anyone in the modern era to faint from shock. For perspective, Principal Selphis—a 6th-rank Saber in his prime—had never surpassed 80%.
The only reason a student like Zien, who couldn't even pass a virtual simulation, held such a number was because Evan had spent decades crossing the threshold of death alongside Heukhyang.
'The memories didn't just bring back knowledge; they brought back the bond.'
It was an unexpected windfall, and a welcome one.
Since a Magic Tool's output was tied directly to assimilation, Arcana Academy even had a specialized course called [Bonding with Your Stigma].
Zien hadn't just skipped the class—he had bypassed the entire learning curve on a private jet fueled by his past life.
'Mana capacity and assimilation—both are more than ready.'
Zien closed his eyes.
'Remember the weight. Recall the edge.'
Summoning a Magic Tool for the first time was usually a grueling ordeal of instinct and willpower.
But for Zien, this was a victory lap. Even with his eyes shut, the image of Heukhyang—his partner for over ten years—was as vivid as the sun.
A blade and body of pure, pitch-black shadow.
A design that rejected ornament in favor of lethal utility.
The mental image sharpened, vibrating with intent until it coalesced into a physical reality. Heukhyang looked like a shard of polished obsidian; looking at it felt like falling into an abyss. His old comrades used to describe it with awe:
The black blade that severs the void.
Zien could feel the sword manifesting in the space before him.
'Now, for the final step.'
He reached out and grasped the hilt of the sword that technically didn't exist yet.
The moment his fingers closed around it, the weight became real. The connection was complete.
In the hand of the boy mocked for being a "tool-less failure" now rested the legendary weapon of Evan Crowe: the pitch-black sword, Heukhyang.
"It’s been a long time, old friend."
A century, give or take.
Zien looked down at the blade and smiled.
The B3 Dormitory gym.
The facility was state-of-the-art and usually packed during the day, but at night, it was a ghost town.
After 10 p.m., the doors stayed unlocked, making it the perfect spot for students to sneak in and mess around away from the faculty's prying eyes.
"Hey, Daven! Did you hear the latest?"
A student was snickering at his phone. Daven, currently crushing an empty beer can in his hand, looked up.
"Hear what?"
"About that loser who tried to step to you at the start of the term."
"Who?"
"The dead-last kid. Zien."
"Oh. Him."
Daven sneered as the memory resurfaced.
"I stopped caring about that piece of trash a long time ago. Like I told you, he’s a lost cause. Still can't summon a Magic Tool? Pathetic."
He meant it. To Daven, Zien wasn't even worth the effort of a proper beating anymore.
The rivalry—if you could even call it that—had started because of Zien's swordsmanship.
Daven’s Stigma manifested as a sword, and he came from a prestigious martial lineage. Yet, during their first encounter, Zien had actually managed to keep up with him.
'How does some orphanage rat block my strikes?'
Daven's pride couldn't handle it. He had hounded the boy ever since.
"So why bring him up now? He's getting on my nerves just hearing his name."
"I don't think he's dropping out. I saw his name on the roster for the dueling labs."
"Professor Karsen's class?"
His friends nodded. Daven’s grip tightened on a fresh, unopened beer can.
Pop!
The aluminum buckled and sprayed foam under the sheer pressure of his mana.
"Unbelievable. This cockroach just won't stay down."
It was one thing to throw away a broken toy, but it was another thing entirely to watch that toy try to put itself back together.
Daven stood up, wiping foam from his hand.
"Dueling class is at 5:00 tomorrow, right?"
"Yeah. Why?"
"I’m going to end this properly. I’ll break his hands so badly he’ll never be able to hold a toothpick, let alone a sword."
Dueling Class.
Zien sat quietly in the back corner of the bleachers.
'I wonder who my target is today.'
The duels at Arcana were a high-tech evolution of the "non-lethal sparring" traditions of Zone 3.
The students used real martial techniques, but a virtual dampening field in the arena ensured no one actually died.
It turned what used to be a bloodbath into a controlled, educational environment.
'Yesterday’s duel was a waste of time. I got matched against an archer. The range advantage was a joke.'
Zien ran a hand over the wooden practice sword at his hip.
Since Magic Tools were banned in basic dueling labs to level the playing field, students were restricted to standard weapon types: bows, swords, maces, and the like.
It was a rule designed to test raw skill, especially for those whose Magic Tools were elemental or utility-based.
'I’m hoping for a sword or spear user today...'
While Zien scanned the room for a challenge, the instructor sauntered in.
"A Saber must be flawless."
Professor Karsen, the dueling instructor, was a man of... let's say, eccentric tastes. His uniform was rumpled, and his long hair looked like it hadn't seen a comb in weeks.
When the principal had once tried to lecture him on his appearance, Karsen had famously replied, "Worry about your cholesterol, not my hair." He’d been an academy legend ever since.
"My philosophy is simple: Never drop your guard. A Saber is perfect, or a Saber is dead. I've told you this before."
Karsen scratched his ear lazily.
"You need to be a jack-of-all-trades. Sharp mind, unbreakable body—the whole package. Why?"
He made a sharp cutting motion across his throat with his thumb.
"Because if you aren't, the Gates will swallow you whole."
Karsen set up a folding chair and sat down, wincing slightly. His old injuries were clearly acting up.
"A Saber's death is a tragedy for the city and a failure for their allies. So don't slack off. Even in this room, you fight like your life depends on it. Freshmen—pay attention."
As soon as Karsen finished his intro, the first pair of students stepped onto the floor.
"Rank 110, Moen. I challenge Rank 72, Rateka, to a duel."
"Challenge accepted."
The room buzzed as challenges were issued and accepted across the five arena fields. Karsen watched from his chair, occasionally shouting critiques with surgical precision. Then came the main event.
"Rank 37, Daven Storm. I challenge Rank 162, Zien Russell, to a duel."
A wave of whispers broke out across the spectator seats.
"Zien? Is he even allowed to be here?"
"Wait, is that the same kid? He looks... different. Actually kind of hot."
"Why is Daven wasting his time with a bottom-feeder?"
It was B-Dorm versus D-Dorm. Elite versus Exile.
The gap between 37th and 162nd was like an anteater looking at an ant. They were both technically students, but the skill gap was supposed to be insurmountable.
"Duels are meant for growth. What are you going to learn from fighting the kid in last place?"
Karsen narrowed his eyes, sensing the malicious intent.
Daven turned to the seventy other students in the room, his voice loud and clear.
"Objection, Professor. There’s nothing for me to learn, but I think he has a lot to learn from me. Right?"
"Heh, I guess it’ll build some character," one of Daven's cronies shouted.
Zien remained perfectly still, his expression unreadable. Karsen took his silence for paralyzed terror.
"It’s too dangerous. If there’s an injury in a duel with a 50-plus rank gap, the academy insurance won't cover it."
He pointed to the red text on the arena doors.
"The rules are clear: You get hurt in a mismatched duel, the medical bills are on you. Arrogance has a price. Zien, do you still want to do this?"
"Yes."
Zien’s voice was calm, almost bored.
Surprised, Karsen waved a dismissive hand.
"Fine. I warned you. Zien Russell."
"A big gap just means there’s more for me to gain," Zien added.
Daven barked out a laugh.
"You heard him, Professor! He’s practically begging for a lesson. I’ll make sure it’s one he never forgets."
Daven had no clue who he was dealing with. This wasn't the broken boy from the start of the year.
The man holding the wooden sword was the Sword God who had reached the pinnacle of his craft before he could even grow a full beard. Zien looked at Daven with a sense of pity.
'Is this really what they consider Saber material these days?'
In Evan's memory, Sabers were living fortresses—unyielding walls that protected the weak. The hothead in front of him was just a loose cannon with a temper.
"Fine, fine... both parties agree. Field setting?" Karsen asked, sounding exhausted.
"Desert," Daven snapped.
"Victory condition?"
"Total submission."
As Daven spoke, the floor began to shift and hum. The arena used Zone 1 technology to manifest a virtual desert—tech far beyond what civilians could ever dream of seeing.
"Hey, looks like you finally lost the weight. Is that where all this new confidence is coming from?"
Zien ignored the taunt, taking a slow, rhythmic practice swing with his wooden sword.
Whoosh.
The sound of the air cutting was the only thing that mattered.
Arena 3. Zien Russell vs. Daven Storm. Match starting.
A mechanical voice boomed throughout the gym.
Match begins in 3 seconds.
"I heard you were struggling with residual mana," Daven whispered, leaning in so only Zien could hear.
2 seconds.
"It’s a good thing you fixed it. It would’ve been a shame to kick you out of the academy while you were still just a fat pig."
1 second.
"Now, stay still like a good little peasant."
Karsen’s expression darkened at the insult—he had commoner roots himself. But he held his tongue as the match started.
Every eye in the room was glued to Arena 3.
Daven wasn't worried about winning; he was only worried about making it look cinematic.
'I’ll have him begging for mercy in exactly sixty seconds.'