The quiet night air was steeped in darkness, and the soft glow of the moon, filtering through the stained-glass windows, only accentuated the deep shadows of the mansion.
Reinhard Deira slowly ran his fingers along the blade of the sword hanging on the wall.
The ancient sword passed down to the heirs of the Deira family—Ein-Rog.
A black blade, forged by ancient masters, handed down through generations of the Deira lineage.
It was crafted from dark mithril, an alloy whose durability surpassed 99% of all known metals, and its mana-absorbing properties made it a deadly weapon in the hands of those who wielded the dark magic of the Deira bloodline.
Reinhard traced his finger over the cold, smooth edge, feeling a slight tremor run through the metal in response to his touch.
He remembered.
He remembered how he once held this sword.
Remembered how he cut down enemies with incredible precision, how he felt the crunch of bones with each strike, how he slipped between blades as if dancing.
— Hmm… it will do for now.
In his past life, he was granted the title of Sword Emperor.
In this life—he was merely an 8th-rank mage.
But that was a temporary inconvenience.
Reinhard slowly drew the sword from its scabbard, savoring the raspy sound of metal leaving its sheath.
The dark mithril gleamed in the moonlight, reflecting the dim flames of the lamps illuminating the study.
He gazed at his reflection in the blade.
A barely perceptible smile touched his cold face.
He was anticipating it.
— Well then, it's time to begin.
He turned and left the empty room.
The Mansion's Corridor
The corridor of the mansion was just as somber as the rest of the estate.
Dark wooden walls, a red carpet, a heavy half-light, disturbed only by the ghostly glow of the moon seeping through the tall windows.
The dim flicker of lamps barely illuminated the grim tapestries depicting battles with demons, ancient hunters, and scenes of the Deira family's immortal glory.
Darkness had always ruled this mansion.
Even its air was saturated with something oppressive, suffocating, unrelenting.
But none of this affected a man who had survived hundreds, thousands of battles—battlefields had become his home.
Reinhard walked slowly, deliberately, thinking.
How should he punish her?
What to do with someone who had tried to betray him?
Torture? Let her experience fear, pain, and suffering?
He would like to see that.
He would like to see her face contort in horror.
To see her collapse to her knees, begging for forgiveness.
To watch as she realized her insignificance before him.
But he had no time for that.
And she did not deserve such an honor.
A mere, insignificant servant who did not know her place.
A simple worthless maid whose life wasn't even worth the blood on his blade.
And most importantly...
He already knew who had tried to kill him.
Louisa was nothing but a tool.
She wasn't worth dragging things out.
Reinhard saw a young maid in servant's attire sweeping the floor near a column.
The moment her gaze met his, she froze.
Then—she quickly bowed, lowering her head.
— M-My lord… — her voice trembled.
Fear.
Reverence.
A mixture of emotions that lived in every servant under his rule.
The previous owner of this body had kept his servants in fear.
He was the perfect nobleman, meticulous in etiquette, and despised those who dared address him without proper respect.
But respect was not given solely for his status.
He was feared for his cruelty.
He did not tolerate mistakes.
He did not forgive disobedience.
He punished even the slightest misstep.
Reinhard stepped closer.
— Where is the head maid?
She flinched but quickly answered:
— I-In your chambers, my lord.
He smiled slowly.
A light, almost imperceptible smile.
— Good. Keep working.
The girl flushed.
No surprise.
In this world, his appearance was perfect.
He was known as one of the "Six Young Faces" of the Empire.
Just another card in his deck.
He walked past her, not sparing her another word or glance.
Descending the grand staircase leading to the central hall, he saw the servants below bow hastily.
He was their master.
A master who inspired more fear than the demons.
Passing through the hall, he did not stop.
He turned into a dark corridor.
Only a few sparse candles illuminated the walls, casting flickering shadows.
This corridor led to his chambers.
Where the traitor awaited him.
Louisa.
A soft creak of the door.
Reinhard opened it without hurry.
Stepped inside.
A spacious room, bathed in moonlight, shimmering on fine fabrics, marble, and jewels.
Silken drapes.
Lavish decorations.
A large bed covered in dark sheets.
But he did not look at it.
His gaze was fixed on the woman.
Louisa.
Six years older than him.
A maid who had cared for him since childhood, a surrogate mother in place of the one who had never spared him a thought.
She stood by the wardrobe, rummaging through his belongings.
Gold.
Jewels.
She was stealing.
Like a rat.
Like a pathetic creature that had forgotten its place.
Reinhard said nothing.
But the moment she heard the door open, Louisa froze.
Turned around.
And paled.
In her eyes—was pure terror.
— M-My lord…? T-This is not what it looks like...
Her voice trembled. Her hands shook.
She looked at him as if seeing a ghost.
As if he were a dead man returned from the grave.
The blade of Ein-Rog gleamed in his hands under the moonlight.
She would not betray him again.
Now—she would face judgment.