"Vincent!... Sweetie, don't run! You'll fall and scrape your knee!"
The voice was warm—maternal, gentle. But the boy kept running, laughter in his breath, until his foot caught a stone. He stumbled—then fell.
He began to cry.
Footsteps hurried toward him. Arms scooped him up, soft and sure.
What is this? he thought, watching it unfold.
"I told you," the woman said, sighing softly. "Hush now, my dear."
The tears stopped. He looked at her. She was beautiful—serene, almost ethereal. Her long white hair flowed like snow, and her eyes glowed a soft ember hue.
"I'm sorry, Mommy..." the voice said. His voice.
Mommy? the thought echoed in his mind.
A bright flash.
"Haiyah!" he shouted, raising a wooden sword.
"Higher, Vincent!" a deep male voice called out.
"Hiyahh!"
The wooden blade struck the straw dummy, sending pieces of straw scattering into the air.
"That's my boy! Ahahaha!"
The world turned to face a tall man—golden hair, crimson eyes, a sharp, proud jawline.
"I did it, Dad!"
What... is all this?
Another flash. Then another. And another.
Each memory flooded him like a wave, blurring into the next—until the last one struck like a dagger.
Clashing steel. Screams. Explosions of fire. Chaos.
"Lord Vincent!! Look out!!"
He turned—too late.
A blade pierced his chest.
The orc snarled as it ripped its sword free. Blood gushed. He staggered, knees hitting the earth.
He fell.
Darkness swallowed everything as the final breath left his lungs.
Then—darkness vanished.
His eyes opened slowly to the quiet of the royal chamber. A sudden chill traced from his cheek to his ear. A tear.
What was all that?
He sat up, slow and quiet, brushing the tear away—but more followed. He stared ahead at nothing, eyes fixed on the ornate wall, yet seeing nothing at all.
Who were those people...?
His breath grew unsteady. The woman with the ember eyes. The man with golden hair. That voice—his own, calling them "Mom" and "Dad."
I... I thought I was an orphan.
The thought cut through him like a blade.
His hand trembled as he wiped at his face again, but the tears kept falling—quiet, steady. He bit his lip, trying to hold it in, but the sob came anyway. First a shaky breath, then another. And then he broke—his body trembling as the confusion, grief, and fear crashed over him.
He didn't know who he was.
He didn't know what was real anymore.
And in the silence of the chamber, beneath the noble silks and royal shadows, the boy called Vincent wept—alone.
---
"The way of the sword isn't as simple as you think," Arthur said, his voice steady and firm. "It's not just about swinging and stabbing. Sometimes, you need to improvise—adapt your technique to the situation."
He stepped closer, his eyes sharp but not unkind. "I once taught a boy much like you. Smart. Skilled. And by the looks of it, I hope you have the same."
Arthur extended the sword's hilt toward Vincent. "Now, show me how you handle a weapon."
Vincent took the sword, feeling the weight settle in his grip. He squared his shoulders, settling into a stance. With focused determination, he swung the blade in sweeping arcs, changing angles fluidly. The sword felt heavy, but he pushed through, moving with growing confidence.
Finally, the blade plunged deep into the straw dummy's chest with a satisfying thud.
"Very good," Arthur said approvingly.
I learned this back at the orphanage where I grew up, Vincent recalled silently. The priest there was fascinated by swords. He once told me that if he had lived in medieval times, he would have wanted to be a knight instead of a priest.
Vincent pushed the thought aside and returned to training, swinging his sword through the air with renewed focus.
Hours passed like an eternity. Now, Vincent held a wooden sword, sparring with Arthur. Their sticks clashed sharply, the echo ringing through the wide training ground.
Suddenly, Arthur flicked his sword, knocking Vincent's weapon away with ease. "Your right arm was a little exposed," he said calmly.
Vincent bowed his head in apology. "I'm sorry, Master."
He picked up the wooden sword again, ready to continue.
As Vincent rose from retrieving his wooden sword, his eyes caught movement from the castle window above. A girl stood there, watching him.
She was young—perhaps his age—dressed in a flowing gown of soft blues and silver embroidery. Her expression shifted the moment their eyes met: surprise, curiosity... and something else he couldn't quite place.
Vincent blinked, unsure of what to do, and quickly bowed his head in silent acknowledgment before turning back to the training field.
With a breath, he tightened his grip on the hilt. Then, once more—
Crack!
The sound of wood striking wood echoed sharply across the grounds, wiping the moment from his mind. The duel resumed.
A week had passed.
Vincent had undergone rigorous training under the watchful eyes of the Hunting Knights. Each of them had taken time to teach him the ways of knighthood—discipline, strategy, swordsmanship, and survival. To their quiet surprise, none were disappointed.
Whether beneath the scorching sun or drenched by cold, unrelenting rain, Vincent never wavered. He trained with unyielding resolve. The city life he once knew—the cars, the lights, the people—felt like a distant dream. Whatever this world was, whatever twist of fate brought him here... this was now his reality.
That night, gathered around the soft glow of a campfire in the training grounds, the Hunting Knights shared their plans.
"Tomorrow, we scout the edges of Scardjigan Forest," Commander Arthur announced, the firelight flickering against the plates of his armor. "We leave as the sun crests past dawn."
"Why not bring Vincent along?" said Gradion, a tall, broad man with a thick beard and a voice like rolling thunder. "The forest is near the dungeon—he's ready to see a beast up close."
"Aye," Darius added with a grin, adjusting the strap of his shoulder guard. "Let him earn his first blood. The blood-eyed boy might surprise us yet."
The others chuckled quietly, their faces lit by fire and shadow. Vincent said nothing. He simply stared into the flames, gripping the wooden practice sword across his lap.
Inside, he wasn't sure if he was ready—but outside, he had no choice.
"Why don't you all calm down and let the boy decide?" a calm, low voice cut through the laughter.
It was Aurel—the group's mage. Tall, composed, and ethereal, the long-silver-haired elf leaned against a wooden post, his pale eyes reflecting the firelight. His presence always brought a certain stillness, like the quiet after a storm.
Vincent gave a sheepish chuckle and scratched the back of his head. "Ahah... It's only been a week. I haven't even practiced much with a real longsword yet."
The others laughed at his honesty.
"We've all been there," Darius said with a grin. "But trust me—facing a real beast teaches you faster than hacking at a straw dummy. Unless, of course, a cursed haystraw monster shows up. Then you're overqualified." He broke into a loud laugh, and the others joined in, including Vincent.
"I swear," Rynard added with a smirk, patting Vincent hard on the back, "if we ever fight a straw beast, I'll give you one of my golden tooth."
"Just one?" Gradion said, nudging him with an elbow. "Might want to offer both if the kid slays it solo."
The fire crackled, laughter echoed into the night, and for a moment, Vincent felt like part of something—like he belonged.
"Well, alright then," Arthur said with a faint smile. "Vincent, you'll be coming with us tomorrow. Bring the sword I gave you."
He rose to his feet slowly, and the rest of the knights followed suit, their armor lightly clinking in the firelight.
As they began to disperse, Vincent remained seated, his gaze still fixed on the training dummies.
"I'll stay," he said to Aurel, who had paused beside him. "I still have three hundred swings to go."
The elf gave a small nod, his silver hair catching the wind. "Don't train too late," he replied, his voice calm as ever. "You'll need your strength tomorrow."
With that, Aurel turned and left, his long robe whispering against the ground.
The camp quieted down, torches flickering in the soft evening breeze. Vincent stood and gripped his wooden sword once more. He faced the dummy, took a deep breath, and began his swings—one after another, the blade slicing through the air in rhythm.
The sky above had just slipped past dusk, and the world was painted in deep blues and flickers of orange. Each swing echoed softly, not with violence, but with focus and resolve.
"If only Father Yohan were here... he'd be happy," Vincent muttered as he sat down to rest, wiping the sweat from his brow.
The training grounds were silent now, save for the occasional crackle of a distant torch. His chest rose and fell slowly, until—
"Hiyahh!!"
A memory flashed through his mind like a blade through smoke. He stumbled back, dropping his wooden sword. The world around him dulled as the vision took hold.
"But Dad! Lances are amazing!!"
Another voice echoed in his mind—his own, but younger, brighter.
"Ahaha, alright, alright. If that's what you like, my boy."
The words wrapped around him like warmth and sorrow at once.
Suddenly, a strange mist began to coil around his body—thick, faintly red, like smoke mixed with blood. Vincent clutched his head as a storm of memories surged through him. Faces, laughter, battles—lost time clawing its way back.
Then, as quickly as it came, the crimson mist began to dissipate, vanishing into the night like steam from a wound.
Vincent fell to his knees, panting.
"Haa... haahh... hahh..."
His eyes were wide, unfocused. His skin was cold with sweat.
The training sword lay beside him, forgotten.
His mind was reeling.
What... was that?
"Hahh... damn it..." Vincent muttered under his breath as he rose unsteadily to his feet.
His legs ached, his arms trembled, but still he walked—slow and quiet—toward the armory. Inside, the gleam of steel greeted him. He passed over the wooden blades without a second glance and reached for a longsword, heavier and cold in his grip.
If I push myself harder... maybe the memories will come back.
He returned to the training grounds, moonlight casting pale light over the field. With a deep breath, he raised the sword and began.
Strike.
Again.
Again.
The sword cut through the air, swift and disciplined. His form was sharper, honed by every lesson he had endured in the past week. Sweat ran down his face, yet he didn't stop—not after fifty, not after a hundred. The silence of his mind only fueled his resolve.
But as he reached the final swing—
Nothing.
No flash. No voice. Just stillness.
A hollow ache stirred in his chest. A strange yearning. The memories—were they truly his? Or just visions, ghosts of someone else's life?
Please... show me more.
He gritted his teeth and turned toward the dummy. He struck it—again and again. The blade felt lighter, more natural in his hands, his movements guided by instinct rather than thought. Every cut followed the techniques Arthur and the others had taught him.
Then—
A final slash. And with it—
It returned.
A flash of sound and light. The clash of weapons. The pounding of hooves.
"Another one, Vincent!" a voice called—a deep, armored baritone.
Through the vision's eyes, Vincent saw the world from horseback. A lance gripped in one hand. the other on the rein. Opposite him, a knight in full training gear mirrored his pose, also mounted.
"Ready, Uncle?" he heard his own voice say—but it wasn't this Vincent. It was that Vincent. The one from before.
"Whenever you are, dear boy!" his uncle called out—smiling behind his visor.
Their horses surged forward. The thunder of hooves echoed in his chest.
Then—crack!
The lances collided. Wood splintered. His vision spun.
Vincent hit the ground hard—but laughter burst from his lips.
"Vincent!" a familiar voice cried—his mother's, filled with worry.
"I'm okayyy! Hahaha! That was so amazing!!" he shouted, lying flat on his back, grinning at the sky.
As the vision steadied, he saw his father walking toward him—quiet, strong, a faint smile on his face. His uncle, Vynrick, dismounted and approached as well.
"Did you see me, Dad? Did you see me??" Vincent asked, beaming.
His father ruffled his hair and chuckled. "Yes... yes, I saw you. You were amazing."
"I struck Uncle Vynrick and broke his lance as we—"
The memory faded before he could finish.
Back in the present, Vincent stood frozen, staring at the ground. Sweat dripped from his brow, splashing onto the dirt.
Then—creak...
The training dummy collapsed behind him, its head rolling free. He turned, breathless.
For just a second, he saw it—the faint shimmer of crimson mist trailing the edge of his sword... and then it vanished into the air like smoke.