Status and Honor Mean Nothing
Status in Snowfall, honor—none of that mattered. Having tasted plenty of it in his past life, Rowen knew they were all futile. Those sweet things offered no real help in the face of death. He had no idea why he'd been reborn with his memories intact, but...
"Found you, Young Master Rowen. So this is where you've been hiding."
"Ugh, Arahan..."
For now, he was just trying to dodge the eyes of his family's maid.
Rowen was fifteen now. He'd grown taller, and much of his childish look had faded. Years of training had built some muscle on his frame; he was no longer a child. His face still held the softness of adolescence, but there was nothing to be done about that. He wasn't an adult yet.
A lot had happened over the past five years, but looking back, nothing particularly memorable stood out. If there was one thing that lingered in his mind, it was...
"No more skipping out. Now, pick up your sword."
"...Can't I take it easy just for today?"
"No."
...the fact that he'd started sword training lessons.
Arahan was said to be an adventurer from the eastern continent of Kalia Rune. He'd only learned that recently, five years after she arrived. Among adventurers, she had a fearsome reputation for her strength. He had no clue how she'd ended up serving his family, though.
"You claimed to be sick yesterday and ran off again."
"Hey, it wasn't running."
"Is honing your magic really that much more important?"
"It's not that I hate the sword. I'm just thrilled I can use magic freely now. It never gets boring."
"But swordsmanship does get boring?"
"Honestly... yeah."
"I'd like you to train your swordsmanship as diligently as you do your magic."
"I think I can hold my own with the sword without grinding it out."
He'd wielded a sword his entire previous life. Of course it felt stale. In that realm, he'd reached the peak, and he took pride in it. But that was his past life's story. Now, he'd discovered a new toy: magic. Spells he couldn't use freely back then. It was only natural that Rowen was drawn to it.
"Anyway, let me off just for today. We've got plenty of time."
"No."
"Arahan, please."
"I can't. Today, we'll focus on making swordsmanship interesting for you, Young Master."
"Damn it!"
Arahan swung her training sword lightly. The long wooden blade whistled past Rowen's nose in an instant. He barely twisted away in time. Frost instantly bloomed on his right arm, exhaling cold mist.
Rowen had trained relentlessly for five years. Unlike before, it didn't take long to draw his Ice Blade.
Hummm!
The core in his body churned silently yet ferociously. He was still too young for his Mana Flower to fully bloom. But Rowen's genius and memories transcended even that natural limit.
Five years ago, he couldn't deploy frost magic that quickly. He had to focus all his senses on his right arm. The speed of drawing the blade depended on his concentration. But now, ice blades sprouted from his wrist at a mere signal.
Arahan blocked the Ice Blade effortlessly. It took the form of an assassin's dagger, short-ranged unlike a longsword, yet she parried it without issue.
Focus.
Rowen breathed steadily—short and heavy—as he blocked her training sword. The thin layer of ice on his right arm radiated chill. It was purely defensive magic. Attribute Granting was like that. But Rowen had succeeded in summoning ice to forge a weapon.
Naturally, the Ice Blades he created weren't limited to daggers.
Full-body Attribute Granting was impossible until his core fully bloomed. But...
My left arm can do it.
Cold burst from his left arm in an instant, freezing it solid. Frost crusted every joint of his fingers.
Arahan twisted her body. At the same moment, Rowen drew his second Ice Blade.
"A longsword this time."
"Can't fight you with just daggers forever."
"...I'd prefer if you used a proper training sword for fair sparring."
"You swung first—how was I supposed to know?!"
Clang!
Arahan twisted, flicking her training sword to the ground before resuming proper stance. Rowen stepped back, mirroring her. He sheathed the dagger and focused on the longsword. Abel's weapon, the assassin's dagger, wasn't bad. But the longsword was Rowen's specialty.
Because I'm a hero. A great knight.
They locked eyes, focusing on each other's sword tips, probing for the first move. Slyly, like snakes eyeing prey.
"Watch your gaze. Feints matter too."
"What do you think I'm aiming for?"
"Me, obviously."
"Right. Same for you. But not you exactly."
If Rowen were targeting Arahan herself on a real battlefield, he'd go for the heart. But this was sparring, training. No intent to knock her out with vital strikes. Even if he did, he'd stop short.
"So you're watching my gaze?"
"Who knows?"
"Hehe, that's tricky."
They probed each other softly, sharply. Reading flows of body, breath, even mana.
Rowen noticed mana gathering at Arahan's feet. He did the same, building propulsion. He aimed to end it in one clash. So did she.
Whoosh!
Arahan kicked off; Rowen launched from the ground. Swords crossed. They twisted to minimize damage to themselves. On a real battlefield, that gap meant death.
They closed in—close enough their foreheads nearly touched. With real blades, one step closer... their souls would be with the gods.
Rowen flashed a feral grin at Arahan.
"That was a live blade? You'd be dead. Gotta be faster."
His sword halted at her nose. She smiled; he smiled back.
"Would I? You'd be dead too, Young Master."
Their swords hovered at each other's heads. They'd stopped at impact points—no injuries. They lowered weapons and stepped apart.
"Your focus is sharp today. Something bothering you?"
"What?"
"Your concentration spikes whenever you're in a bad mood."
"What kind of logic is that?"
"Less logic, more observation from years of watching you."
"Well, yeah, something annoying happened."
Got caught skipping. Time stolen, less for magic research. Sword training mattered, sure. But magic was fun. With decades at the peak in his past life, magic felt fresh. Back then, his body wasn't suited for it. Now? Totally different. Excitement for new heights, thirst for exploration—it all aligned.
"I want to become a mage who surpasses Mio."
"The great mage Mio Lizfeldt, who vanished without a trace?"
"Yeah."
"You've loved 'The Tale of the Five Heroes' since you were little. Do you admire her?"
Admire? Me, admire Mio?
The word nearly furrowed his brow in fury.
That woman who drowned in booze daily, bawling her eyes out, using my clothes as tissues?
He respected Mio's magic. But the woman? No.
The second daughter of the Lizfeldt family, Mio Lizfeldt was a drunkard and a crybaby. Ruthless to enemies despite the tears. On demon blood-soaked battlefields, she'd drop meteors and quake the earth. Something beyond human. A genius beloved by mana itself.
Her magic was worthy of respect. But not her as a person. He'd say that because they'd been together longest. She had a talent for exhausting people—always clinging, refusing to let go. He still didn't get why. She claimed his chest was comfy. What was so great about a rock-hard, muscle-bound slab?
"No."
"Pardon?"
"I respect her magic, not the person."
Arahan tilted her head curiously. Rowen sighed deeply and raised his Ice Blade.
"Anyway, that's it."
*
Hours after Arahan dragged him into sword practice. Afternoon had arrived. Even in summer, the snow-blanketed north retained its pristine white aura.
Rowen slumped into a stone chair, exhausted. Arahan had gone to fetch drinks, granting him a brief moment of freedom.
"Long sessions are still too much, huh."
Born into a body capable of peak—or beyond—strength. Yet Arahan's power intrigued him. She never went all-out against him. Sparring was just her job.
That's why he wondered. His current body couldn't gauge her full strength. Swordsmanship prized skill, but he hadn't expected her to nullify his once-peak techniques. Losing raw power was expected. But if she'd been born in his old era, she might've been a peer.
Rowen thought that highly of her.
"Aigoo, my poor shoulders..."
He gaped and kneaded his shoulders fiercely. Even with strength buffs and frost to disrupt her path, she'd worn him down. Their sword skills were even, but her superior physique and higher realm prevailed.
Past-life Rowen—Rian—had exuded jet-black sword aura. He cleaved demons with auxiliary spells squeezing minimal mana to extremes. He didn't believe in gods, yet blessings found him. Swinging his black blade carved black lines in the air. Horizontal energy blasts vaporized demons. No ordinary sword aura—compressed essence that melted on touch, beyond mere explosion.
His mana didn't take after his father, but his swordsmanship could. Meeting one mage, Mio Lizfeldt, taught him magic. He couldn't drop meteors or reshape the world like her. But her knowledge was a vast library. He maximized tiny mana pools for spells. Fused it with swordplay—freely, sometimes painfully. Thus, humanity's strongest swordsman and hero.
Why else call him "Great"?
"That's how strong I was."
Rowen nodded, reminiscing old glories. Then gazed at his Ice Blade.
A mana sword forged of frost magic. Unlike normal blades wrapped in sword aura, it matched that intensity inherently—made of mana. Still, compared to before, it was child's play.
That realm from back then.
Ignoring his aching shoulder, he reached toward the sky. Imagining surpassing it someday, he waited for Arahan.