The morning mist clung to the stone walls of the Luxmore estate like a cold shroud.
Arain stood in the center of the training grounds, surrounded by elite guards and the cold gaze of his father, Duke Valerius Luxmore. In this life, Arain was known as the "Mana-less Failure," a stain on the family's prestigious name.
"Pick it up," the Duke commanded, his voice like grinding steel. He pointed to a heavy training sword made of black iron. "Show me that the blood of Luxmore still flows in your veins, or leave this house forever."
Arain's elder brothers, watching from the balcony, snickered. To them, Arain was just a toy to be kicked around.
Arain didn't respond. He walked toward the sword. His small hands gripped the hilt. It was heavy—too heavy for a normal six-year-old.
'Heavy?' Arain thought, a cold glint appearing in his red eyes. 'I have wielded blades forged from the souls of gods. This is nothing but a toothpick.'
[System: Synchronizing Combat Memories...]
[Skill Activated: Level 1 Sword Mastery (Restricted)]
As his fingers closed around the iron, a sudden surge of killing intent erupted from his small frame. The guards flinched. The air grew heavy.
With a single, fluid motion, Arain swung the sword. It wasn't the clumsy swing of a child. It was a perfect, lethal arc—the "Shadow-Cutter Strike" from his past life.
CRACK!
The heavy wooden training dummy in front of him didn't just break; it was sliced clean in two.
Silence fell over the courtyard. The snickering on the balcony died instantly. Duke Valerius narrowed his eyes, his grip tightening on his own blade.
Arain lowered the sword, his face calm. He looked up at his father, his voice tiny but chillingly steady.
"Is this enough, Father? Or should I cut something else?"