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Chapter 3
The sheer weight of the presence froze Dante where he stood.
Why hadn’t he considered this?
Shouldn’t he have expected that his father—of all people—would notice the change in him?
Was it because he was still shaken by the impossible fact of returning to the past?
Or because his heart was still racing from awakening the Starseal?
Whatever the reason, Dante had completely forgotten the unfathomable heights his father had already reached.
And that lapse had brought about this very moment.
What once had been a figure so lofty he couldn’t even look straight at him now bore down with crushing, suffocating force.
“Answer me. Who are you, to wear the face of my son?”
His father’s voice demanded truth. His expression left no doubt: the boy before him was not his son.
Of course he would think that. From the way Dante breathed to the way his muscles moved with each step, everything about him was different now.
For anyone else, the change might pass unnoticed. But not for him.
Not for the man known as the Sword of the Empire.
“If you do not answer, I will strike you down here and now.”
It was a breakfast table—no swords at hand. But it didn’t matter.
Even with nothing more than the small knife on the table, Zenon Aquites could wipe out an army.
The pressure crashed down. Dante felt as though his very skin was being ripped apart.
‘Ugh…!’
Just standing upright was a struggle. This wasn’t the realm of the sword—it was the domain of raw mana.
Yes, he had awakened his Starseal only yesterday. But compared to Zenon, who had spent a lifetime honing both sword and mana, Dante was nothing but a newborn.
Even knights who had awakened their seals years ago could not endure this aura without collapsing.
And yet—
Dante stood his ground.
He could not spare the breath to speak, but he refused to stumble back, refused to kneel.
No matter how young his body appeared, the heights of mastery he had once reached were not so shallow.
Blood welled on his lip as he bit down hard. The pressure grew ever heavier, threatening to crush him whole.
‘No more… I can’t…’
And so Dante reached deep, to the power he had been hiding.
A low hum thrummed in his chest. Mana, pure and untainted, uncoiled like silk threads.
It wasn’t much, but it spun quickly through his body, circling once, twice, thrice—
and with every revolution, the crushing weight upon him lightened.
Zenon’s eyes widened. The disbelief in them sharpened, as though he were witnessing something impossible.
For the briefest instant, the pressure faltered.
Dante seized the moment.
“It’s me.”
Just two words.
But it was all he could manage.
He met his father’s eyes as he said them.
And just like that, the suffocating mana dissolved as though it had never been.
Zenon’s gaze swept him over, from face to chest, before a harsh laugh tore from his lips.
“Impossible… At that age, to awaken? I have never heard of such a thing.”
Zenon himself had been hailed as the Empire’s greatest talent, and he had only awakened his seal at thirteen.
But Dante was barely ten.
Not even the most ancient myths spoke of a child awakening so early.
“Last night…” Dante began, ready to spin a half-truth. He couldn’t very well admit to coming back in time.
But Zenon cut him off with a raised hand.
“Enough. The process matters not. Only the result.”
He didn’t need to say more. Dante’s awakening was undeniable, and that fact alone outweighed every question.
“Breakfast will wait,” Zenon declared, pushing back his chair.
“Come. To the training yard. Now.”
He left without looking back.
The moment he was gone, the room breathed again. Servants who had been frozen in place rushed to clear the untouched dishes as though nothing had happened.
Dante let out a long breath.
“So this is the man they call the Sword of the Empire.”
In the past, he had only known his father as a distant, overwhelmingly strong figure.
But now—now he could truly see it. Zenon Aquites had every right to bear that title.
A sudden itch prickled Dante’s fingers. His father’s swordsmanship must be every bit as terrifying as his mana.
Perhaps now…
“Master Dante!”
Eina’s frantic voice broke his thoughts. Her wide, anxious eyes darted to the blood on his lips.
“Oh no! You’re bleeding!” she cried, fumbling out a handkerchief.
“It’s nothing,” Dante said. His new body had already healed the wound, leaving only a faint trace.
Still, she fussed over him until he gently raised a hand.
“That’s enough.”
She stepped back, flustered.
“I should change clothes,” Dante said.
Zenon had ordered him straight to the training yard. There would be no time for breakfast.
“I’ll prepare something suitable!” Eina exclaimed, dashing off.
When Dante reached his chambers, she had already laid out several light outfits, the best she could find for training.
“Good choice,” he said, slipping one on.
Before long, he stood at the gates of the training yard. Silence hung heavy. Rows of knights stood at attention, hardly daring to breathe.
All eyes were fixed on the lone figure in the center—Zenon.
“You’re here,” his father said.
“Yes.”
Despite his child’s stature, Dante lifted his chin, meeting Zenon’s gaze without fear.
With a rasp, Zenon drew his sword. The gleam of silver bore the golden lion of their house. Its sharpness alone seemed enough to shear through steel.
“This is yours now.”
It was far too large for a ten-year-old. But neither father nor son cared.
Dante accepted it with both hands, savoring the cool weight of the blade.
“Show me your sword.”
A single step back gave him space. His small frame moved with surprising ease despite the blade’s size.
‘The tip aimed true. The edge held straight. Breath steady and strong.’
He raised the sword high.
Whoooosh!
The wind stirred as mana gathered around the steel.
To the watching knights, it was unthinkable. His form was perfect. Too perfect.
And then—
“Stop.”
Dante froze mid-swing. He hadn’t halted because he wanted to, but because Zenon’s mana gripped his body, cutting his intent in half.
Why? Why stop him now?
But Zenon’s expression was calm, as though he had already seen all he needed.
“That is enough.”
Reluctantly, Dante lowered the blade. His heart still ached to swing it through.
“Was that truly your first time holding a real sword?”
“It was,” Dante lied.
Zenon studied him for a long moment. Then he pointed to the weapon.
“It belongs to you now. Name it yourself.”
A sword more brilliant than any in the household—yet Zenon spoke as though it was only fitting for his son.
Finally, he turned away.
“The God of Swords shall be reborn.”
His words were quiet, almost to himself. Only Dante, standing close, could hear the awe hidden beneath.
“Continue your training. You will have all the support you need.”
