Chapter 5

Lucia Equites.

When Dante’s birth mother passed away from illness, his father took in another wife.

Though not bound by even a single drop of blood, Lucia had acted as a kind and gentle mother to Dante from the very first moment they met.

Dante had once believed she would endlessly embrace him, nurturing him with warmth.

But now—

“So you dare… you dare to do such a thing to me.”

The reason he had failed to sense mana until the very brink of death.
The reason he could not awaken his Stigmata.

It was because of her.
Because of Lucia, who now stood smiling before him.

He had not known it before.
But now, he understood.

“She is the source of all my ruin.”

Lucia was a wound.
Though he had never shown it outwardly, she had left an indelible scar upon his heart, one that could never be erased.

“I saw the Lord of the house grant you your sword,” she said with a gentle smile, placing a hand upon his shoulder. “I’m so proud of you.”

Flinch—

Dante’s body trembled, ever so slightly.
Not from fear.

From disgust.
So much so that his hand nearly rose on its own, instinctively reaching toward the hilt at his waist.
Had it not been for superhuman restraint, he might have drawn his unnamed blade then and there.

“Mm? What’s wrong?”

Perhaps she had sensed his trembling through her touch. Lucia tilted her head curiously.

“Ah… training was a bit harsh. The cramps haven’t gone away yet,” Dante replied smoothly, forcing his body under control.

“Your tone…”

It was futile. She, who had raised him, immediately noticed the change in his speech from just yesterday.

Her fine brows furrowed, suspicion filling her gaze.

Dante saw it and, after a brief struggle, spoke with forced difficulty.

“…I’m grown now, after all.”

“Pfft—!”

Lucia burst into laughter. Had no one else been watching, she might have laughed even louder.

She smiled as if she understood and continued,

“Yes, yes. You’re old enough now to wield a real sword. You’re no longer just a child.”

Dante’s childish excuse, spoken with feigned embarrassment, seemed to satisfy her.

“You don’t look well. Go and rest.”

Her words, tender and full of false kindness, only deepened his revulsion.

“Thank you,” Dante said, bowing his head before brushing past her.

“Ah, but do spare me a little of your time soon, won’t you? I’ve had the finest medicinal herbs brought from the south, just for you.”

Herbs.

Dante clenched his jaw behind closed lips.

“…As you wish.”

Without looking back, he quickened his pace.

“Y–Young master?”

Behind him, his maid Eina hurriedly followed, flustered. She bowed politely to Lucia before rushing after him.

But Dante could not spare her a glance.
He needed to get away.

Farther, faster.
Before the murderous intent boiling within him burst forth.

“Disgusting.”

Her false, saccharine smile was enough to make him want to vomit everything he had just eaten.

“Master? Are you all right?”

Eina caught up to him, worry plain on her face as she tugged gently at his sleeve.

“Ah.”

Only then did Dante stop walking.

“Why are you in such a hurry?”

It must have looked like he was running away.
Of course it seemed strange to her.

“It’s nothing. I’m just a little tired,” he lied with an awkward smile. He could hardly tell her it was because he nearly drew steel against his stepmother.

“Oh dear, then let’s hurry back.”

Her flustered fussing eased his mood, if only a little. For an instant, he thought of the little stray dog that had kept him company during his twilight years in the mountains.

“…I wonder how you’re doing.”

He only hoped his death had not frightened it too much.

Shaking off the thought, Dante nodded.

“Let’s return.”

Thanks to Eina’s fussing, the suffocating hatred in his chest lightened somewhat.

“I’ll escort you,” she said cheerfully, leading him back to his chambers.

Once inside, she asked, “Please rest a bit. Ah, and what about dinner?”

Dinner.

It was nearly time, but Dante had already devoured a feast not long ago. He hardly felt hungry.

And yet—his body, now reborn, demanded endless fuel.

“Not now. Could you prepare a late-night meal instead?”

“Of course!”

Eina’s face lit up. She would have cooked for him even at midnight, if he wished it.

“My room will do.”

He had no desire to risk meeting Lucia again in the dining hall.

“Any special request for the menu?”

“Meat.”

He answered without hesitation.

“Haha! Understood. I’ll tell the chef to pile on the meat. He always does whatever I say.”

Dante wasn’t sure what she found so funny, but she grinned from ear to ear before leaving.

When the door shut—

“…Phew.”

The silence pressed in.

Dante sank onto his bed, short legs dangling. The sight made him impatient to grow taller, faster.

“Today was… eventful.”

His life now was similar to the past, yet full of differences. Exciting, hopeful differences.

Until she appeared.

“Stepmother.”

And his two half-brothers.

No matter what else changed, he would have to deal with them.

Yes, there was room to mend things in this new life.
But he had no desire to.

He remembered too well the torment they had brought upon him.

“Just thinking of them makes me sick.”

And Lucia’s mention of “medicinal herbs” was proof enough—things would not change.

He wanted to cut her down now.
But he had no grounds.
She had not yet committed a crime.

Even if he did, her power and influence were far beyond what he could contend with now.

“Until I grow stronger, I must endure.”

And then—he remembered something.

“Yes… that incident.”

Soon, the Empire would be shaken by a great event.
It had happened when he was young, yet he still remembered it vividly.

If he used it wisely, he might avoid crossing paths with Lucia—for now.

“It won’t be easy…”

At his age, it would be difficult to gain permission. But if he wanted to escape her presence, he had no choice.

Resolute, Dante turned to the problem at hand.

“What I need most now… is to learn how to use mana.”

He had felt it.
He had awakened his Stigmata.
His body had been remade.

But how to wield mana properly—he knew nothing.

“I must master this. Quickly.”

A difficult path lay ahead.
But compared to his thorn-filled past life, it was nothing short of a flower-strewn road.

“There’s no answer but training.”

This time, true training.

And Dante welcomed it, smiling.

At dawn, he woke before Eina could rouse him.

Even after devouring two entire portions of the midnight feast, his body felt light, reborn.

He dressed, prepared, and waited only for one thing—breakfast.

Knock, knock.

Eina peeked inside, surprised.

“Oh! You’re already ready, young master?”

“Yes. From today, I’ll be training in the mornings.”

She nodded, eyes shining. “So that’s why you asked for breakfast early.”

The meal was simple but plentiful: five sandwiches, soup, and a mountain of salad. Dante devoured it all, then rose to leave.

“Already?”

“If Sir Milleon comes looking, tell him I’m at the training grounds.”

Without waiting for her reply, he stepped into the cool morning air.

The training yard, bathed in dawn light, set his heart alight.

“The sword… later.”

He longed to test the new blade at his waist, but first—he had to master this body.

He set the sword aside and began his exercises.

A unique martial art, born of the Imperial Academy’s teachings but refined through decades of lonely struggle.

“Huup—!”

With a deep breath, he stepped.

Thud—

The ground seemed to connect with his body, energy surging through him.

“Good… very good.”

Mana flowed with each motion, a breeze rising around him. His movements, though simple, unlocked flexibility, strength, and speed beyond mortal limits.

Immersed, Dante lost himself.
Entering the state of No-Self.

His strikes, though empty-handed, carried the weight of steel. His stance anchored him like a mountain.

Time slipped by.

“…I’m not tired at all.”

In his past life, this training crushed him in ten minutes.
Now, even after half an hour, an hour—he felt nothing but exhilaration.

Finally, after a full hour, he stopped.
Not a drop of sweat marked his face.

“Sir Milleon must see this…”

A true knight, with awakened Stigmata, could refine this into something even greater.

At last, he turned to the sword he had so long restrained himself from touching.

“…Your turn.”

Schhhhing—

The blade sang as it left its sheath, gleaming beneath the rising sun.

Mana surged, forming a tiny whirlwind.

Dante became one with the sword.

There was no thought left.
Only the act of cutting.

“Haa—”

Slowly, deliberately, he moved.

From left to right.
From above to below.

A holy ritual, a sacred swing.

So slow it would have driven Eina mad to watch.

And yet—

Swoosh, swoosh—!

The empty air itself split, as though something invisible was being cut away.

“…Hmph.”

A low sound escaped someone’s throat.

Milleon.

He had come upon Dante in the training yard and now stood frozen, watching.

Was this truly the sword of a ten-year-old boy?

“That blade… holds a will far beyond his years.”

Even the imbalance of sword to body could not diminish the grandeur of it.

Milleon could only gape, before finally muttering aloud:

“…This is madness.”