3.
“Is… is that even possible?”
After that outburst, the children sitting by the well slowly came back to their senses and began talking over one another about what had just happened.
“D-did you see that?”
“How did a runt like him drop Barison in a second?”
Low murmurs of admiration rose among some of the students. Despite their young age, hardship was etched clearly across their faces — these were not children of nobles or famous families. The reason for their amazement was simple: for those who had yet to learn breathing techniques or the art of the sword, size and raw strength were the decisive factors in any fight.
You can run from someone like that, but you can’t beat him just by being quick and nimble.
That was the unspoken law of those raised on the streets. Yet Kun had ignored those laws and won. Even if it had been a sudden attack, their perception of him changed instantly.
However, not everyone shared that admiration.
“Looks like a weakling… maybe he secretly trained?” some students muttered with displeased expressions.
Unlike the first group, these ones had rather refined faces. As mentioned before, the offspring of noble houses exiled to Lion’s Moat evaluated the situation differently.
“Doesn’t seem like it. He never stood out during group training.”
“True. Wasn’t he always trailing behind even during regular runs?”
“But still… those movements…”
After a short debate, the small group quickly reached a single conclusion.
“He just got lucky.”
“Agreed. No matter how you look at it, it was a sneak attack.”
“And Barison’s an idiot for losing to such a weakling — even if he was caught off guard.”
An unexpected result — just a coincidence.
Most of the students nodded in agreement. After all, they had studied their families’ sword techniques and breathing methods since childhood. They could not yet shatter boulders or cleave city gates, but they understood one thing well: size was not everything. To them, Barison was merely the leader of a pack of ragged street brats — nothing special.
“Such trash…”
“I could’ve done the same if I had the chance!”
Contempt came naturally to them — a form of self-defense.
And at the same time…
……
There were several other pairs of eyes evaluating the fight between Barison and Kun far more objectively. More precisely — one group and one individual.
The group, naturally, was the instructors of Lion’s Moat, watching the scene from the shadows.
“What was that just now? Astal’s basic technique — rotational chaining?”
“A technique mostly used by southern mercenaries…”
They were no less shocked than the students; beneath their masks, their eyes flickered faintly with confusion.
The second observer was alone.
“What kind of technique is that?”
One of the students, who had not yet reached the well, stood frozen with wide-open eyes.
Neatly arranged blond hair, a youthful face, and shining sapphire eyes. Unlike Kun, whose appearance carried a gloomy decadence, this boy was classically handsome. This was Taylor Roseta, the second son of the impoverished noble-merchant House Roseta.
The reason for his presence in Lion’s Moat was simple. The restoration of his house.
Once, House Roseta had been famous in the North for both its trade success and swordsmanship, but that former glory had long faded. Someone had to restore it.
My older brother should be the one here, but…
After their parents’ deaths, someone had to remain outside to manage the family business and care for the younger siblings. Taylor volunteered to go to Lion’s Moat — and not only for that reason.
…When physical strength is required, I’m more suited than him.
His brother possessed exceptional talent for commerce but had been sickly since childhood. Unlike him, Taylor had been called a genius of the sword from an early age. Yet because of the house’s decline, his talent had never been able to bloom. The family had surely found his farewell letter by now.
They must be worried.
Remembering the letter he left in his desk drawer before running away from home, Taylor sighed quietly. He had witnessed the recent scene by chance — after finishing cleaning duty following training, he had been heading to the well to wash off the dust.
That person…?
He knew Ethan. Rumors called him the weakest student in the entire camp. People said that once real training began, he would either run away unable to endure the brutality or simply die. Taylor had often glanced at him before, because he somehow resembled his older brother.
Those were the rumors about him…
Seeing something completely different, Taylor froze.
“He just got lucky.”
“Yeah, just attacked from behind.”
“Tch, can’t believe someone lost to that stick figure.”
Taylor heard the whispers of the other students. Envy seeped through their voices beneath feigned indifference. He turned to them with an expression of utter disbelief.
Are you serious? After what you just saw?
Idiots born into good families who just learned to swing swords earlier than others.
He had thought that before — but now that conviction only strengthened.
Taylor replayed Kun’s movements in his mind. The way he dove under an attack from an opponent twice his size without a trace of fear.
When he spun to strike, the broom never once touched his own body.
That was only possible if the fighter fully controlled the weapon’s trajectory and the surrounding space. One could not achieve that by simply swinging a stick.
And that speed…
Taylor felt involuntary admiration.
Could I have dodged that?
Unlike Barison, Taylor had trained in his family’s techniques and breathing methods under his father before the house’s collapse. Moreover, masters who had surpassed human limits had acknowledged his talent. He would not have lost so miserably.
But…
What if the attack had continued? What if those movements carried aura?
At that thought, Taylor unconsciously turned toward the departing Kun.
If it had been me instead…
“I’d have knocked him out in two hits…”
“Two? One would’ve been enough for me!”
Behind him, empty bragging continued near the well.
Fools.
4.
Meanwhile, Kun headed toward the student dormitory.
“Gh…?”
He suddenly grimaced in pain. Kun looked at his right arm — the forearm muscles he had used to wield the broom were cramping violently. Because he had made sharp movements in an untrained body, the muscles had spasmed.
Well now…
He was thrown off balance by the fact that such a trivial exertion caused a cramp. The body was far weaker than he had expected. With a bitter smile, Kun began massaging his forearm with his left hand as he walked, sifting through the previous owner’s memories.
…Yeah.
A heavy sigh caught in his throat. There had to be a serious reason why a descendant of the Northern Despot, blood of House Zoldic, possessed such a frail body. Kun focused on the boy’s health memories.
A child born with Dead Man’s Sleep…
Kun knew perfectly well what that illness was.
A disease and a curse in one.
It was an anomaly so rare it had appeared only a handful of times in the continent’s history.
A body born closer to death than life. A being standing at the boundary of worlds.
That was how those afflicted with Dead Man’s Sleep were described. Because of the curse, they not only possessed extremely weak physiques, but from childhood saw hallucinations that gradually eroded their sanity. No wonder the affliction was called heaven’s punishment. Since awakening in this body, Kun himself had already seen things that should not exist several times.
They said almost none marked by the curse lived past thirty.
Everything ended in madness. Most could not endure the visions and took their own lives.
But that was not all.
Dead Man’s Sleep had another fundamental problem.
Because of the death energy flooding the body — dead energy — it was impossible not only to create a mana heart but even to sense or accept mana by ordinary means.
If you cannot accept mana, there is no way to treat it. Kneading his still-aching forearm, Kun whispered quietly:
“A flesh incapable of accumulating aura or learning magic…”
Even if he had been born in a normal family, his life would have been miserable. And in House Zoldic, where strength ruled as doctrine… there was no need to explain how he had been treated.
However, for one who possessed Myung’s memories, Dead Man’s Sleep was no longer a curse.
Kun slowly clenched his fists, looking at his thin wrists.
“A monster who reached the peak of dark arts through treacherous and ominous techniques.”
He had never understood the true meaning of those words before. But now, having accepted Myung’s legacy, he realized how absurd they sounded. A body afflicted with Dead Man’s Sleep was perfectly suited to mastering Myung’s techniques. A body that from birth attracted all foul and dark things due to excess death energy…
The fact he could not create an ordinary mana heart was no longer a problem.
Supernatural power and divine madness.
The breathing technique from another world once possessed by Myung. Repeating the name to himself, Kun entered the dormitory building.