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Episode 2
Sion thought back to the moment he first came to this world.
Another World Saga—commonly called AWS.
He had been forcibly transferred to this world, and he bitterly regretted not having properly reviewed the game introduction or its overall story beforehand.
He knew almost nothing about this world.
He had signed up for the beta test after being impressed by its realistic graphics, innovative systems, and thrilling action—but then got busy and forgot about it until the test day, when he received a text message and logged in.
And less than ten minutes after logging in, he realized he wasn’t playing the game at all. He had been transported into the world of AWS, inhabiting the very character he’d painstakingly created: Sion.
He didn’t even have time to ask cliché questions like “Why?” or “How did I end up here?”
There were no status windows, stats, or other game-like elements. All he could do was desperately struggle to survive in this harsh world.
During that struggle, Sion couldn’t accept that this world had been “created” by someone as a game.
It wasn’t because of the impossibly realistic environments and nature, beyond what any VR could achieve.
It was the people.
The people Sion met and experienced in this world were not mere fragments of data made of 0s and 1s. They were real people with reason and emotions.
The joy, sorrow, anger, elation, and glory he experienced with them—
All of it was real to Sion.
But above all else… pain.
Sion had died twice.
The first time was three days after he arrived, killed by bandits.
He could still remember the feeling of that blade plunging into his stomach—cold and burning hot at the same time.
Because he hadn’t died immediately, wild beasts had come after the bandits left and eaten him alive. The memory of that agony was still as vivid as if it had happened yesterday.
That pain had been real.
That was when he realized that the stories in comics or novels, where characters endure death lightly because they can revive, were all lies.
Half a day after his first death, he resurrected at the spot he died. Though relieved to discover he was immortal, the pain had been so horrific that he swore never to die again.
That resolve became even firmer when he died again—his limbs severed—during a war he joined as a mercenary.
Although he healed far faster than anyone else in this world, even regenerating lost limbs within days, he never grew used to the pain.
And this world was overflowing with pain and death—it was a violent, chaotic place.
To survive in a world where death could strike at any moment, Sion saw only one option: he had to grow stronger.
He traveled far and wide, begging renowned warriors for training.
Knights, mercenaries, assassins, brawlers…
Some turned him away, others used him like a servant.
Yet Sion persisted, determined to learn even a single technique from these masters of violence and killing.
During that time, he also discovered that he didn’t age.
The body he inhabited—his game avatar—remained permanently at the age of 26. His hair and beard grew, but his body never aged.
Because of that, he never stayed with a teacher for more than three years. Any longer, and his immortality would be exposed.
Some teachers accepted his departure, but others tried to keep him by force, unwilling to lose a diligent unpaid servant.
Most of those who tried died.
Sion didn’t want to kill, but after more than a decade in this world, he had grown accustomed to making choices to protect himself.
His mind had hardened along with his body. He didn’t experience PTSD from killing—just a faint sense of discomfort.
Nine years passed as he learned from five masters and killed three of them. He grew powerful.
And around that time, the Ash Demon Dragon, Beuslec, appeared in the world.
“Was that sixty-five years ago? No… sixty-four?”
Poking at the campfire with a hazy gaze, Sion muttered to himself.
He’d just returned from watching his eldest son’s final moments, and memories of the past kept surfacing.
“Theo, my son…”
Thinking of his son brought a searing pain to his chest.
Sion’s original family name was Jang. He had taken the name from the priest who adopted him, as he had been an orphan. The priest also gave him the Christian name Sion.
For his firstborn son—who gave him the joy of becoming a “parent” for the first time—he gave the name Jang Theo.
Theo was special.
Sion had suffered indescribable pain when he heard that his youngest daughter, Maria, had died in an accident.
They say the grief of a parent losing a child feels like one’s intestines being ripped apart—he learned that this was true.
He felt that same pain six years ago when his second son, Suun, died of illness. And now, losing Theo, the agony was still the same.
Even though Theo had lived longer than the others, and even though Sion had mentally prepared himself after losing two children already, the pain was no less severe.
Only his second daughter, Tirsa, remained. But Sion had no intention of visiting her—now a grandmother herself.
He could still picture his grandchildren, but unlike his children, they didn’t know who he truly was.
The Duchy of Sion, and its future, now belonged to them.
He had to uphold the decision he and his wife had made decades earlier, when they left the duchy behind.
More than anything, he could no longer bear watching his descendants grow old and die before him.
“Live your life now.”
Those had been the final words of his wife, Stella, twenty years ago.
She could have asked him to watch over their children and the duchy. But even in her final breath, she had thought only of him.
“Yes… that was you.”
He whispered softly, raising his head from the fire.
In this world, with no pollution or light interference, moonlight illuminated the night astonishingly well.
On nights with a full moon, torches weren’t even needed outdoors.
But on moonless nights, the darkness was absolute.
Even so, Sion—whose body had evolved through countless battles and training—could detect movement in the darkness beyond the firelight.
His enhanced senses picked up the sounds of uninvited guests approaching from about fifty meters away.
When they were within twenty meters, his keen sight pierced the darkness and identified them.
“Six of them. All armed.”
The grieving father was gone. What stood now was a cold, dangerous man.
“Why’s he standing up? Did he notice?”
“Don’t be stupid. He’s no owl—he can’t see us from there.”
“We’ll strike all at once. Get ready.”
They whispered, unaware that Sion could hear every breath, every heartbeat, even their murderous intent.
He remembered the first time he’d sensed that “killing intent.”
It was with his third master, the legendary assassin Berat (not his real name).
Berat was a born killer. Under him, Sion learned to sense killing intent.
When Berat discovered Sion was also one of the “chosen,” he tried to kill him—but failed.
Sion wasn’t merely similar to Berat. He surpassed him.
He had not only learned to sense killing intent, but also to project it. Berat hadn’t known this—and died because of it.
Three steps.
Sion took only three steps forward, and groans burst out from the bushes.
Two attackers clutched their throats and chests, collapsing.
The other four froze in place, rigid as statues, eyes bloodshot with terror.
Invisible pressure—Sion’s killing intent—had paralyzed them.
In smooth, efficient movements, Sion cut them down.
Throats and hearts pierced, they died without a scream.
Five down. One remained.
A boy, small and trembling on the ground like a frog.
He was maybe thirteen or fourteen—a middle-schooler by Earth standards.
This was that kind of world: even children fell in with murderous gangs.
Judging by his appearance, he was likely a refugee dragged in against his will.
“Go. If I see you again, you die.”
The boy, who had shown no killing intent, scrambled away in terror.
Sion always kept that single rule: those without killing intent, he would not kill.
After the boy vanished into the darkness, Sion calmly returned to the campfire, as if he hadn’t just slaughtered five men.
His horses reacted differently—one nervously, the black stallion pretending to sleep.
“This bastard… sleeping while his master’s fighting? Maybe I should smack you.”
The stallion twitched as if it understood, then stuck out its tongue and pretended to be unconscious.
Sion chuckled and patted the other, more loyal horse.
“Don’t copy him, okay? Alright, time to go. You too, up.”
He packed up, extinguished the fire, and mounted the stallion.
The boy would probably flee for good, but Sion preferred not to take chances. Killing wasn’t pleasant—and today, of all days, he didn’t trust himself.
His son had just died. In this state, he might really turn into a mass murderer.
“Live your life.”
His wife hadn’t meant a killer’s life.
“Hoo…”
Taking a quiet breath, Sion departed with his horses.
This would be the last time he set foot in his duchy. He vowed never to return.
The immortal man rode away into the night.
(To be continued…)
