Reunion with the Sword Maniac
The boy with hair as red as rose petals and golden eyes was a face Aslan had never seen before, yet strangely, it didn't feel that way.
An odd sense of déjà vu. Where have I seen him? No, he'd never laid eyes on him. But soon, Aslan realized it instinctively.
"You... could it be..."
Aslan felt the blood in his veins surging toward the boy. His heart pounded wildly on its own, making him realize there was a powerful bond connecting them.
"My... son?"
Aslan's lips trembled. It was absurd, he thought. This sword-obsessed madman hadn't even properly grasped how long he'd been holed up in the training chamber.
That was how utterly devoted Aslan had been to the sword during his time there.
He'd swing it all day, then collapse on the floor when his body could move no more, circulating his mana cultivation method and sinking into meditation. When some new insight into the sword dawned on him, he'd leap up and swing again. When he could no longer stay conscious, he'd drop like he was fainting and sleep. He'd stagger out, chew some pills, then swing the sword, circulate mana, meditate, swing again...
Living like that for 12 years had completely shattered Aslan's sense of time. Time spent lost in sword madness flew by in an instant.
He hadn't been without longing for Arian, of course. More than once, he'd wanted to rush out and see her. She was surely furious. He'd left her with nothing but a note saying he was going into seclusion.
But this stubborn, foolish man saw even that aching longing as part of his trial. He believed suppressing it and swinging the sword would let him grasp something greater.
More. Swing harder. Once he broke through the wall, then he'd go out, kneel before Arian, and beg forgiveness. That resolve had kept him going.
All without realizing 12 years had passed.
How old... is he?
Aslan swallowed hard. The weight of the years he'd squandered in sword frenzy, never truly felt, now crashed down on his mind like brutal violence.
The boy before him was undoubtedly his son with Arian. That much was certain. But the boy's age... even at the youngest estimate, he looked over 10.
Have I been locked in here for over 10 years?
That would mean when he wrote that seclusion note, Arian was already pregnant with their son. Aslan's body began to shake. He was stubborn and foolish, sure, but not a shameless bastard.
He couldn't say exactly how long he'd been in there. But the cost of time lost to sword madness felt utterly horrific now.
While Arian had given birth alone, raised the child, and nurtured him to this point—what had he done? Swung the sword. Nothing but the sword. Aslan felt intense self-loathing as he staggered to his feet.
Or tried to.
Aslan froze, staring at Kyle.
His nameless son's gaze was anything but ordinary. No longing, no resentment—just pure evaluation. As a swordsman, Aslan knew what that look meant.
Like a beast eyeing prey. Like a swordsman sizing up a sparring opponent. A cold, sharp gaze swept over Aslan's entire body.
No child should have eyes like that, or exude such an aura. Even amid the chamber's savage mana storm, his son didn't flinch, appraising him coolly.
What the hell...?
Soon, Aslan's warrior instincts screamed a warning. Separate from blood ties, a chill ran down his spine. His awkward half-risen stance snapped into form, and the sword on the floor flew into his palm like it was magnetized.
At the same instant, Kyle kicked off the ground. For the first time since reincarnating, he unleashed such raw killing intent. And for the first time, he committed to giving his all—his desperate full power.
All of it drove Kyle's sword toward a killing blow. Rumble! Mana from the Mixed Origin Sword Scripture circulated through his body. Yormungand, coiled in his middle dantian, unleashed its power.
Thud! Thud! Thud! Thud! Mana amplified by Yorm's force slithered like snakes around the wooden sword, forming sword aura of purity beyond what had shattered the chamber's seal earlier.
Flash!
Mana exploded through his circuits, transforming even his physical movements. The moment Kyle kicked off, he crossed the distance in a blink, reaching a position to kill Aslan.
He didn't stop. Kill him, he commanded Yorm—and himself.
Did he truly want to kill Aslan? Was there no choice?
Such questions meant nothing to Kyle, carried no weight. From his past life, loving and wielding the sword, he knew exactly what it signified.
In this world, only doctors wielded blades that saved lives. Battlefield swords were born killers from the start. Their beauty shone not in admiration, but in the swing toward a foe. Even if killing one saved ten thousand, one still had to die.
Kyle could swing his sword to kill without special reason or sincerity.
If 12 years of seclusion can't even block this, it's no different from throwing time in the trash. Better to die.
He glimpsed the emotions flashing across Aslan, frozen mid-motion: regret, self-recrimination. Kyle had no desire to see his "father" blubbering in guilt or begging forgiveness. If he'd secluded himself for the sword for 12 years, what he owed his son now was proof those years weren't wasted.
Clang!
The wooden sword, aimed precisely at Aslan's throat, slid aside. Pain shot through Kyle's wrist like it might shatter, but he grinned brightly. Aslan had deflected the strike with flawless efficiency.
His body pitched forward from the momentum. Thud! Using his braced leg as a pivot, Kyle spun fully in the sword's deflected path. The wooden sword, wrapped in unflinching sword aura, struck at Aslan again.
Boom!
This time, it didn't slide away. Aslan didn't budge an inch, blocking the wooden sword dead-on. His eyes widened at the heavy impact transmitted to his palm.
Not mere muscle power. This was the crushing weight of compressed, spun, and exploded mana. Unbelievable ferocity from a single wooden sword. His son before him wielded mana with absurd perfection and aggression.
What kind of mana is this?
The purple sword aura cloaking his son's wooden sword was an unknown force even to Aslan. It felt muddled, like elements fused chaotically—yet stable. Mana of distinct properties harmonized in perfect balance.
Rumble! Aslan's sword wrapped in white aura, his mana erupting as a fierce storm engulfing Kyle.
Wind, Kyle noted the instant the gale hit. He poured more mana into his wooden sword. Aslan bore the wind spirit root. His sword arts turned every gust into attack and slash. Kyle's instincts guided his response—and it was spot-on. Shraa! The sword aura writhed like dozens of snakes rearing heads, exploding against the aura.
"Hm...!"
Aslan grunted in admiration, redirecting his sword. The mangled wind coalesced around his blade, spinning like a tornado into aura once more.
No chance in a head-on clash, Kyle judged coldly. This body was immature, mana insufficient, scripture incomplete. No way to win a brute-force sword lock against Aslan.
Whittle him down, then. Compress the wooden sword's aura thin and razor-sharp, reinforce the body with all remaining mana. Faster, more precise. Golden light flashed in Kyle's eyes as he accelerated further, charging Aslan.
Naturally, Aslan couldn't match Kyle's killing intent. This was his son, first seen today. But he couldn't just bare his neck either, so he aimed to subdue without harm.
But it wasn't easy. The charging son's wooden sword ignored the gaps Aslan deliberately exposed. Instead, it relentlessly targeted Aslan's blade.
The moment wooden sword met steel again—or so it seemed—the trajectory shifted slightly, grazing the sword. Aslan's eyes widened in shock once more.
Cut the aura?
Not clashing head-on, but slicing the aura as it glanced off. Aslan swung immediately. Kyle countered. But again, steel and wood didn't collide.
He's reading my sword path?
Unbelievable, yet that was the only explanation. They'd never crossed blades before—first encounter, and he reads paths? Beyond prediction, he evaded collision by a hair, chipping aura. Reading it was absurd enough, but he trusted his read without doubt. The precisely compressed aura was shocking, but so much more was.
Chipping aura to drain my mana? No... not that. He's playing with my sword.
Whittling aura like this wouldn't deplete Aslan's mana. So why swing that way? To duel blades without full clash. Aslan stared, eyes bulging. Bloodshot, tracing sword paths, his son's lips curved in a bright smile.
The instant he saw it.
Aslan's gaze hardened. No underestimating this boy-son. The killing intent wasn't bluff; the swings weren't fake. This first-met son truly meant to kill his father—and now reveled as a pure swordsman.
Recognizing that, Aslan's presence exploded. No room for carelessness. Wooden sword or not, this was a real swordsman.
Ah.
The moment his eyes changed, so did his sword. The read path veered. Adjusting his own in response—too late, body couldn't keep up. Kyle felt bitter regret pulling his sword. The collision he'd avoided happened. Crack! Aura shattered from the wooden sword; Aslan's blade splintered the wood itself.
Aslan's hand shot out, seizing Kyle's shoulder. Boom! The wooden sword's remnants fell; Aslan's blade plunged into the chamber floor. The whole room shook, a straight slash carved from floor to ceiling.
"You..."
Aslan swallowed, staring at Kyle. Kyle panted, meeting his gaze. Agony twisted his gut like wringing. Mana depletion from his dantian left him dizzy.
"Are you... really my son?"
Unbelievable. Or hard to believe. This boy defied Aslan's common sense—a monster.
Kyle twitched his stiff lips into a grin. Sweat drenched his face, but his expression shone radiantly.
"You're really my father."
Kyle acknowledged Aslan.
He didn't know Aslan's level 12 years ago, but today's Aslan was a swordsman worthy of the title "father."
"Ha... haha."
Aslan laughed, wrapped in an indescribable feeling. He sheathed his sword and gripped Kyle's shoulder with that hand.
"What's your name?"
"Kyle. Kyle Alastor."
"Alastor...? You don't mean..."
"We decided on pureblood Alastor."
A voice came from behind. Aslan startled, looking up.
Julius stood there, arms crossed by the door.
"His talent's too great for Antares. Any objections?"
Aslan paled, releasing Kyle's shoulder and dropping to one knee.
"F-Father-in-law."
"At least you call me that. Shameless bastard. After neglecting my daughter for 12 years, you dare?"
Julius's icy tone drained Aslan's color further.
"1... 12 years...?"
"Your son's 11."
Julius strode into the chamber.
"Aslan, you secluded yourself without knowing your wife was pregnant. For 12 years."
"..."
"From that look, you lost track of time, swinging madly in a trance."
"I'm sorry... I'm so sorry."
"If your sword hadn't improved after 12 years shut in, I considered chopping off an arm as payment for wasted time."
Julius's cold eyes left Aslan, turning to panting Kyle with unfamiliar warmth.
"What do you think?"
"Too fine a sword to waste an arm."
"Then no chopping."
Julius clicked his tongue, muttering.
"F-Father-in-law, I..."
As Aslan hesitated to continue, Kyle frowned and kicked his leg.
"Save excuses or apologies for Mom, not Grandpa."
He acknowledged him as father, but formal speech? No mood for that. Kyle snapped, staggering toward Julius.
"How much did you see?"
"From when you tried killing Aslan."
"From the start, huh? I said come when I called."
"Fierce killing intent poured out, so I worried and entered. Thought Aslan might've lost it and rampage without recognizing his son."
Julius's hand rested on staggering Kyle's head.
"Never imagined you'd unleash that."
"Just... happened to work out."
"Still an enigma."
Julius chuckled dryly, shaking his head.
"So, what now? Take your father and head to Sword Tower?"
"Make him kneel before Mom and grovel."
"Your son wants that, Aslan. Your thoughts?"
Aslan, head bowed in despair, startled and looked up.
"Of c-course I'll go. Beg Arian's forgiveness."
"Then bathe first. Trim hair and beard. Don't show my daughter that hideous state after 12 years..."
"No, go like this."
Kyle cut in sharply.
"He looks more wretched and pitiful that way."
For showing such a fine sword, siding with father just a bit felt fair.