The Frozen Plains of Snowfall
In Snowfall lay a vast plain made entirely of ice. It was said that one of the seven Demon Kings, the King of Frost, had been sealed there. A thousand years had passed since the Final War. People had forgotten the Demon Kings even existed. They had become characters in heavily embellished fairy tales—mere topics of idle gossip. It was a pitiful fate for what had once been called a calamity from ancient times. No one worried about the seal breaking. No one even suspected it might.
The last Demon King sealed, Belzebub, had faded even from memory. The surviving heroes had left traces across the lands, built tombs for their fallen comrades, and gone their separate ways. That was the tale handed down.
"Tsk."
Rowen clicked his tongue lightly and closed the book titled Tales of the Five Heroes before standing up. The well-worn volume from his childhood was frayed and tattered.
"Wonder what those guys are up to now."
Rian, whose head had been split open by Demon King Belzebub's magic sword in his past life, had been reborn with the name Rowen. At first, he hadn't understood what was happening. He vividly remembered the excruciating pain shooting through every nerve in his body. But when he came to his senses, a lusty infant's cry rang out. It was coming from his own throat, and in his panic, Rowen cried even harder.
Back then, he'd thought the gods had given him another chance.
"...Back then, anyway."
Before dying, he'd indulged in absurd fantasies. Of being reborn, growing strong enough to seal that bastard away. But his brain had been pierced right after, leaving him unable to do a thing.
"Who'd have thought I'd reincarnate like this."
And as the illegitimate son of the Valenos family, the true power in the northern continent of Winterer, no less.
Born the bastard among three sons and one daughter, Rowen faced plenty of disdain. It stressed him out like crazy. He'd swing his sword. Train to blow off steam.
"At least my eldest brother's a decent guy. That fucker, though..."
The eldest son, Kael, never looked down on him. He was busy with knight order duties, sure, but Kael's kind nature meant he wasn't the type to discriminate anyway.
No, it was the second son. Cain, the same age as Rowen but lording it over him because of an earlier birthday, treated him like dirt. He'd nitpick Rowen's sword swings, get in the way, pick fights nonstop. Total asshole. Brain too small? Zero learning ability? Same age, both ten years old, and all he did was bully his little brother.
We're on completely different levels, aren't we?
Every time, Rowen beat some sense into him with the sword. Did that idiot even know whose soul was trapped in this little body?
Rowen shook his head. He picked up the folded book and placed it back on the shelf. As always, memories of his comrades flooded back. Those heroes, blessed by gods and angels with near-immortal lives—they had to be out there somewhere.
The tales said the Great Mage had buried the Great Knight's body in a sunny spot.
"Mio..."
The Great Mage Mio Lizfeldt, born in the eastern continent of Kalia Rune, who had grasped the truths of all things. She was still revered by many. The book said she'd wept the hardest. Spot on. Mio would have cried the most seeing Rian's corpse. They'd been together from the start—the longest bond among his companions.
"...Who the hell wrote this thing?"
No matter how he thought about it, the details were too accurate to be from an outsider. Not just Mio crying—there were even inside jokes with the others. Trivial moments, fights, memories, happy times. It was pieced together like fragments of memory.
Even after closing the book and slotting it into the shelf, a sharp ache lingered in one corner of his heart.
Whoooosh—
A frosty wind blew through the open window. The weather was clear, the sun shining in the sky. It was summer now.
"Though it's snowing everywhere for summer."
Close to the land where the King of Frost was sealed. This was northern Winterer, their home. The Valenos family had long been the north's guardians and lords of the territory Snowfall. That's why snow fell in the north year-round. Without end, through every season. A place of constant snow and biting cold. This was northern Winterer.
*
When he was first born, they said the heavens had opened. For a mere bastard to have such heavenly fortune—it was enough to make nobles faint. And rightly so; the heavens opening only happened for imperial bloodlines.
His father never spoke of his birth mother. Just that he'd learn someday, while gently stroking his head.
Maybe it was too early for a ten-year-old Rowen. If his eyes had opened right at reincarnation, he might have seen her. But no newborn could open their eyes immediately—not even with past-life memories.
The laws of life couldn't be defied.
Either way, Rowen was a bastard. That fact wouldn't change. Wherever he went, the label would stick, drawing dirty looks.
Rowen shook his head and looked at his palm. A blue orb took shape, pooling round and clear. Like a miniature pond. Pure and transparent.
Stray thoughts would muddy the mana purity, so he shook his head vigorously. He focused on the mana gathered at his fingertips, like a nervous system.
"Let's twist it."
Rowen was obsessed with magic lately. To a ten-year-old boy, magic was a dream come true. Even as a bastard, Valenos blood ran in his veins. His mana was monstrously vast for his age.
He'd used magic in his past life, but as a hero's son, his mana had been pitifully low. He'd barely reached mid-tier mage by adulthood. Theory? Mastered. But mana? Laughably insufficient. It hadn't grown after age ten. He'd tried everything—elixir hunts, early bedtimes, spirit forests. The world wasn't that kind.
So he'd picked up the sword. Luckily, his talent there came from his father's blood, deeply etched into his soul.
Now, with overwhelming mana unlike his past life, Rowen had awakened to magic.
He'd had talent before—overflowing from his father's lineage. He'd manifested every technique possible with scant mana. It was just the lack of quantity holding him back.
With past-life memories and experience, Rowen could now wield magic. Overwhelming talent. His heart raced at the thought of casting spells he'd never could before.
And what he was manifesting now was precisely that.
"Attribute Granting."
He lightly envisioned the rune language. No need for incantation. His mana wasn't so scarce he'd have to chant. He could do it silently.
Our family wields frost magic, right?
He quickly shaped it, coating only his right arm with mana. Covering his whole body would cost too much. Magic's core demanded frost—the family's DNA.
But Rowen couldn't give enough yet.
"My Mana Flower hasn't fully bloomed."
Simply put, he wasn't old enough. It bloomed at adulthood, spinning to infuse his body with attributes. No need to bleed out his blood yet. Imbuing the immature frost flower into his gripped mana sufficed.
Crackle—
A thin icy film slowly coated his right arm. The hardening ice energy boosted his defense beyond normal.
Anyone in the family could do this much. But Rowen didn't stop.
Boosting defense was fine—its original purpose, after all. But what if he layered new magic atop the ice?
"In other words, double imbuing."
Rowen grasped the rippling mana shards in his left hand with his right. He clasped his hands in prayer-like focus.
He pictured it.
Sword.
If he wanted a specific form.
Suddenly, a past-life comrade flashed in his mind—the one who silently shredded foes with dark magic.
Why him? No idea. But it wasn't bad. He'd wielded a sword too, and so had Abel. Different styles, different fields, but they'd honed swordsmanship together, sharing knowledge. He trusted this weapon.
He envisioned an assassination blade.
Assassin's Sword.
Like Abel's weapon.
Crunch! Crackle!
Like a sprout pushing from soil, growing into a tree. A sharp Ice Blade formed. The blade at his wrist exhaled frosty chill.
Going beyond mere body reinforcement, he'd created a weapon. Defense paired with counterattack opportunity.
Simplify this magic for quick cast. Skip generation? No. It was established; no tweaks needed.
"Then..."
The answer was simple: proficiency.
His body couldn't fully handle the frost yet. Calculation issue. An immature body struggled to unleash it instantly.
"If I grit my teeth and force it?"
How long until he could? Manifesting the concept wasn't hard. But wrangling this much mana was new, unfamiliar. His body strained.
"Still, not impossible."
Stay up all night like this, and he could manifest other forms too.
He swung his arm. The sharp ice dagger whistled like a blade. It chilled even microscopic air gaps. The room cooled instantly.
"No need to rush."
He was only ten. Plenty of time till adulthood, plenty for other magics.
Rowen canceled the casting. Blue mana shards swirled in the air. The Ice Blade on his right arm and hardened frost arm shattered. A cool sensation brought satisfaction.
"Take it slow."
Push too hard in excitement, and he'd hurt himself. Step by step, and one day he'd wield frost freely.
Rowen imagined it: cloaking his body in frost mana, summoning weapons at will. Thrilling just to think about. He wanted it more. Growth. The Valenos trait of growing stronger with age made sense for a family ruling the north a millennium. No wonder Snowfall had never fallen.
They grew to upper knight level without training. Mana surged, muscles built naturally. So they pushed harder. To be the strongest. The family creed: blessed bodies demand matching effort.
Even with past-life memories, his body bore Valenos blood. Maybe that's why he felt compelled to try harder.
"Wish I could grow up faster."