Regression

The stifling air carried the pungent scent of cheap wine mixed with the acrid odor of burnt candles and the musty reek of damp leather.

I slowly closed my eyes, then opened them again.

The cold bite of chains around my neck was gone. So was the suffocating, divine agony that had felt like it would burst my heart. Instead, what I felt was the rough texture of well-worn leather gloves on my right hand and the familiar weight of a dagger sheathed at my waist.

I assessed my body's condition.

The vast ocean of magic power I had spent decades refining—gone without a trace. In its place, a pitiful, unstable swirl of mana barely clinging to my dantian near my heart.

Third-class.

I've gone back.

This was the body of my mercenary days—back when I was nothing more than a rookie groveling at the bottom of Viscount Cassian's hierarchy.

"...Hey, Caliph. You listening?"

I lifted my gaze. Across the ridiculously oversized oak desk, a man with greasy hair slicked back and draped in layers of expensive silk stared down at me with a sneer.

Viscount Cassian. The lord who, in my past life, had stolen the ancient artifact I'd nearly died retrieving from a dungeon, then systematically exploited my comrades through political maneuvering.

"A lowly mercenary like you had the audacity to set his sights on a noble's daughter? That alone was your mistake. Don't you agree?"

Cassian tapped the contract on the desk with his finger. Beside it, the ancient artifact I'd bled to retrieve—the Seal of Projection—sat proudly displayed on a luxurious red silk cloth.

"This artifact you risked your life for naturally ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠belongs to the lord of the land. And... that alchemist girl who worked under you? The paperwork's already been finalized—she'll be my third concubine."

Cassian leisurely sipped his wine, his mocking gaze filled with the arrogance of a man looking down on an insect.

"Don't give me that look like you've been wronged. A lowborn mercenary like you can't handle resources or women meant for high nobility. That's just how this continent works. If you're so upset, you should've been born a noble."

I slowly flexed the fingers of my right hand. The knuckles, once mangled with scars from countless battles in my past life, were now smooth.

What did I do back then?

I had been afraid—afraid of the "authority of the land," cowed by the "status and justification" of nobility. I couldn't even grip my sword properly. The artifact was taken, the woman who trusted me was stolen, and I was driven out of the territory in disgrace.

That weakness and indecision had set the stage for an irreversible tragedy.

Those who betrayed me sent my ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠comrades to their deaths. The heroines I cared for were swallowed by schemes and died in misery. And I? I danced like a fool on the stage set by the continent's shadow rulers before finally losing my head.

Because I endured. Because I showed them kindness and upheld their justifications, they saw me as an easy mark.

"This life, I'm done enduring."

I tightened my dantian deep within my chest. Third-class mana was pitiful. I couldn't unleash sword qi or produce overwhelming firepower.

But my soul carried the instincts of the Mercenary King who once ruled the continent—every battle, every subtle movement of muscle, etched into my being.

"...Viscount."

"Hm? Finally coming to your senses? Swallow your pride. That's just how it is for you lowborn—"

Shhk—!

Before he could finish, my right hand shot to the hilt at my waist.

I forced my meager third-class mana into the trajectory of my quick-draw technique. The reckless mana expenditure tore at my right shoulder's muscles and tendons, but the blade struck true.

Thuck.

A hair-thin silver line flashed across Cassian's greasy neck.

"...Huh?"

Blood gurgled from Cassian's throat as he clutched his wine glass. His head twisted grotesquely before tumbling onto the carpet with a dull thud.

Splash—!

A fountain of crimson erupted from the severed stump, painting the ceiling. Cassian's lifeless eyes, rolled back in shock, stared ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠blankly as his head rolled across the floor.

"...Hah... hah..."

I exhaled sharply, my shoulder trembling. Even a single clean slash had strained my underdeveloped muscles and mana.

But the exhilaration flooding my chest was incomparable.

"M-My lord—?!"

"That mad dog of a mercenary killed the viscount!"

The doors burst open as four armored guards stormed in. Their faces twisted in horror at the blood-soaked carpet and their lord's severed head.

"Get him! Tear him limb from limb!"

They raised their spears and swords, moving in a disciplined formation to block the exit. But to my eyes, their flaws were laid bare.

Their weight distribution was sluggish. Their grips on their weapons were too tense. Their coordination was a mess.

Their movements are too wide.

Crash—!

The moment my foot hit the ground, the worn carpet tore beneath me. Just before a spear could graze my collar, I twisted my head and slipped into the first guard's blind spot.

Shhk—! Thud!

My blade pierced through the gap in his gorget, striking his collarbone before withdrawing. I pivoted, severing the second guard's knee to drop his stance, then seamlessly slashed the throats of the third and fourth.

"Ghk—!"

"H-How...?!"

They didn't even have time to scream. Ten seconds—that was all it took for four guards to collapse, choking on their own blood.

Flawless efficiency.

"Hah... hah..."

I steadied my breathing as I lowered my bloodied sword, then turned to the servant cowering in the corner, trembling like a leaf.

"Sp-spare me! Please, mercenary! I beg you!"

"Where's the key to the secret vault?"

"B-behind the portrait! Behind the lord's desk—!"

"Thanks."

I knocked him out with a light chop to the neck, then strode to Cassian's desk. Behind the portrait was a silk-covered vault. I pressed the ring I'd taken from Cassian's severed finger into the keyhole and turned.

Click.

The thick iron door swung open.

Inside were sacks of gold coins extorted from the people, rare artifacts, and several heavy ledgers packed with records.

I flipped through the ledgers quickly. With the experience of my past life, the numbers revealed Cassian's fatal weaknesses in an instant.

Embezzlement of territory taxes, records of massive bribes to his superior, Count Crois... and illegal arms deals with an imperial family currently at war with our kingdom, Brünnhilde.

A smirk tugged at my lips.

A mercenary killing a noble? If I fled now, I'd be a wanted criminal across the entire kingdom by tomorrow. Even with my skills, evading pursuers across the continent would be a pain.

But with these ledgers? The game changed entirely.

Count Crois will be the biggest problem.

As Cassian's direct superior, Count Crois would be furious at his death—but even more terrified of the ledgers exposing his bribes and treason reaching the royal inspectors.

If this got out, ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠his entire house would burn.

I grabbed a quill from the vault and scribbled a short note on Cassian's high-quality parchment.

[To Count Crois.]

Viscount Cassian has been executed for colluding with the empire and treason against the kingdom. The original ledgers and evidence of his dealings are secured elsewhere.

If you attempt to send pursuers or fail to cover this up as a "sudden heart attack" or "bandit raid," these records will be delivered to the royal inspectors and the Order of Knights by dawn.

I sealed the letter with Cassian's signet ring and placed it prominently on the desk beside his pooling blood.

The original ledgers—the real evidence—I stuffed deep into my spatial artifact.

That settles it.

Count Crois would panic the moment he saw this. He'd suppress the news, silence the guards, and ensure no bounty was placed on my head—all to keep his own crimes buried.

I'd used the nobles' own filthy, tangled web of power to launder my crime clean.

"Perfect."

I pushed open the bloodstained window. The cool night air rushed in, filling my lungs with clarity.

In this life, I won't endure. I won't compromise for the sake of justification.

Those who cross the line—whether they covet my woman, my possessions, or my life—will die where they stand.

And I'll make their own allies clean up the mess.

Now, all that's left is to find the comrades I failed to save in my past life—those who were pushed into tragedy.

The first target was already decided.

A knight who dedicated herself to her kingdom, only to be betrayed by the incompetent crown prince and his sycophants—now on the verge of being sold as a political bride (a glorified plaything) to an old imperial duke.

Eleanor Bernice, commander of the Reinhark Knights in the northern kingdom of Brünnhilde.

"Just wait a little longer, Eleanor."

I left the bloodied viscount's estate behind and vanished into the night without hesitation.