Reinhard stepped out of the bedroom, leaving Louisa's lifeless body behind. The air was thick with the metallic scent of blood, and fresh crimson stains adorned the walls, yet he paid them no mind. His thoughts were occupied elsewhere.
He had killed one of the traitors. One would think this would bring relief. But even after such a simple swing of his sword, even after his blade sliced through her fragile flesh like parchment, his right hand trembled ever so slightly.
— How pathetic, — he muttered under his breath, staring at his fingers before clenching them into a fist. — This body is lacking.
In his previous life, his physical form was flawless. Years of rigorous training had hardened his muscles and bones, and his swordsmanship had reached divine heights. But this body… it was weak, too fragile. Like most mages, the previous owner had never cared for physical conditioning, focusing only on mana cultivation.
— Fool, — Reinhard scoffed as he walked through the corridor. — Thinking a mage doesn't need a strong body… You signed your own death warrant.
But now, this body belonged to him, and he had no intention of leaving it as it was. Once he dealt with all the traitors, he would begin training—restoring his strength to once again claim the title of "God of the Sword."
Reinhard left the gloomy corridors of the estate, his footsteps echoing against the stone floor. The next traitor awaited him.
Berthold.
The head of security.
The man responsible for the estate's safety, who had allowed the servant to smuggle in poison.
The question was—was it negligence, or was he working with her?
As he stepped into the courtyard, Reinhard lifted his gaze to the night sky. The moonlight reflected off the wet cobblestones, still slick from the recent rain, and the fresh chill of the night air lingered. In the distance, beyond the tall estate walls, stood the guard barracks, where a low murmur of voices and the occasional clang of metal could be heard.
Reinhard made his way toward them.
As he approached the barracks, he halted at the entrance, observing the scene before him.
Two figures stood outside the torch-lit doorway. One was cloaked in a dark hood, his face hidden in shadows. The other—a man clad in heavy armor, bearing the crest of House Deyra.
Berthold.
Reinhard narrowed his eyes.
The cloaked figure handed him a small pouch, the clinking of coins unmistakable.
— As agreed, — the stranger murmured. — The body must be disposed of as soon as possible.
Berthold took the pouch, his lips curling into a greedy smile as he weighed it in his hand.
— It will be done, — he assured, licking his lips.
Reinhard stepped forward, emerging from the shadows.
— I wonder… which body are you referring to?
The two conspirators whirled around. Shock flickered in the cloaked man's eyes.
— You… — he exhaled, involuntarily stepping back. — How did you…?
Reinhard smirked.
— How did I survive? That's what you want to ask, isn't it?
A tense silence followed.
Berthold remained silent, but his gaze held no trace of regret—only calculation. He glanced at the cloaked man, then back at Reinhard.
— If you double the sum, — he said suddenly, — I won't just dispose of the body. I'll kill him too.
Reinhard chuckled.
The cloaked figure said nothing, but after a moment, wordlessly pulled out another pouch and tossed it to Berthold.
Berthold caught it and nodded.
— The young master won't be leaving here alive, — he declared coldly, unsheathing his sword.