Yawn… It felt good to be young again — absurdly good. To wake up in a warm bed, in a young body, in a noble house. Reincarnation truly was a blessing.
Valtherion pushed the blanket aside and stood, stretching as he walked to the window. From the second floor, he had a perfect view of the winter morning. Snow piled high along the courtyard walls, soft and untouched.
His reflection stared back at him from the glass: a boy of thirteen or fourteen, pitch‑black hair, brown eyes, sharp nose. Nothing remarkable — except the expensive pyjamas.
Valtherion Mograine. Only son of Count Louis Mograine, border lord of the Salerion Empire. Formerly a failed painter from Earth.
He still wasn't used to that last part.
Magic existed here — knights, mages, mythical creatures — all of which honestly terrified him. A miserable painter only wanted to paint and live quietly. Thankfully, the empire was at peace. Raids still happened on the eastern front — Orcs, Rattakins, Chitara — but no major wars.
Urgh… more training today. Less time to paint…
He dressed and headed downstairs, greeting the maids as he passed. Being the only heir of a border territory meant his father had started training him at age six — sword, spear, discipline. That was also when children were tested for magic and qi. Valtherion had no Mana aptitude, crushing his dream of becoming a Wizard. The Mograine bloodline was known for warriors, not sorcerers. His result had surprised no one.
He still remembered the executions his father made him perform. His first kill was a rapist. His second, an Orc. Then a goblin. Then a Rattakin. And finally, a Chitara. Orcs were purple or green‑skinned humanoids; Rattakins were overgrown rats; Chitara were humanoid insects.
On Earth, killing had been unthinkable. Here, it was expected. His father believed an heir must be numb to bloodshed. Valtherion had nightmares, of course — but Louis "fixed" that by making him fight more criminals and monsters. Most were crippled beforehand, just enough to give him a struggle.
"Good morning, Mother, Father!" Valtherion said as he entered the dining hall.
"Morning, my dear son. Come, sit," his mother replied warmly. Morgana Garcia Mograine — elegant, educated, respected. To Valtherion, she was the embodiment of nobility.
"I am leaving today," his father said. "I'll be visiting every fortress along the border. I'll be gone for a month."
Louis Mograine was a mystery. An Expert‑Stage knight, a commander, and a loving father — excluding the forced killings. Calm, disciplined, strangely gentle. Thankfully, the killings had stopped. Now Valtherion focused on training, painting, and studying under private tutors.
"Will you be here to send me off to the academy?" Valtherion asked.
Louis wiped his mouth with a napkin. "Sadly, no. I've arranged lodging for you in Targoth. You'll stay with your cousins — Duke Uthred Garcia, your grandfather's other grandkids— until your education is complete. I've enrolled you in Finance Management, Logistics and Infrastructure, and Diplomacy. Martial arts, strategy, and tactics will be taught privately."
He continued, "We are not the richest, but you will not lack money. My advice: ignore pompous nobles who have never held a sword. Focus on capable peers. Avoid unnecessary conflict. Do you object?"
Behind Louis hung Valtherion's paintings — landscapes, portraits, family scenes. Louis always looked at them with pride. The boy was talented, gritty, intelligent — far more than Louis had been at that age. Reincarnation explained that, though Valtherion kept it secret.
"No, Father. I agree. When I return, I'll help you manage the territory. And for strategy… I trust your guidance."
Border heirs were different from inner‑empire heirs. Their knightly education began at the Imperial Academy. His began the moment he could lift a blade.
Valtherion glanced around the room, still amazed by this world. Magic existed. Supernatural abilities existed. Yet interiors and fashion resembled Earth's Victorian era. Cameras had been invented, but engineering had stagnated — replaced by magic. And people here were more beautiful — gifts of Mana and Qi. Every day felt like walking through a museum.
"Father," Valtherion said, "is everything alright on the border? You've barely been home half a month."
"For now, yes. Raids continue, but the walls hold. Still, we don't know how the Dark Elves will act. Being relaxed is what cost us the gods' blessing — our Great Wall."
Valtherion nodded. Dark Elves were the masterminds behind Orc and Rattakin attacks. Orcs and rats rarely produced exceptional intelligence, but Dark Elves did — and they had breached the Great Wall, shrinking the empire's territory.
Some said the wall was a gift from Orianna, goddess of Justice and Strategy. Even divine gifts could fall.
Thankfully, smaller kingdoms and the Rovan Empire existed. Rovan had its own wall, still standing. If Salerion was a scholar who could wield a weapon, Rovan was a soldier who knew only how to advance. Stereotypes, of course — both empires had brains and brawn. They avoided direct conflict, using proxies instead and mostly verbal battles.
"My transport is here," Louis said, standing. "Valtherion, I'll send you letters. Morgana, my wife — I will return soon."
He kissed her hand, ruffled Valtherion's hair, and stepped outside. A carriage waited, surrounded by soldiers and officials.
"Louis! Take care!" Morgana called.
"Take care, Father!" Valtherion added.
———————
After sending him off, Valtherion and Morgana returned to finish breakfast. In two days, it would be Valtherion's turn to leave for Targoth, the imperial capital. He planned to rest, spend time with his mother, and paint before departing. Soon, he would learn to gather qi and meet new friends.
A new life was beginning — whether he wanted it or not.