Chapter 3 …
The overwhelming presence made Dante’s body stiffen instinctively.
Why hadn’t he thought of it?
He should have expected that his father would naturally notice the change in him.
Was it because the shock of returning to the past had shaken him?
Or perhaps because awakening his stigma had left him overly elated?
Dante had completely forgotten the heights his father had achieved.
And that forgetfulness had led to this moment.
The man who had once been so exalted that Dante couldn’t even look at him directly was now crushing him with terrifying magical power.
“Answer me. Who are you, that you wear my son’s face?”
He was being questioned about his identity.
Zenon’s expression held absolute certainty that the boy before him was not his son.
It was no surprise.
From his breathing to his gait, down to the tiniest movements of his muscles—
The Dante standing here was completely different from the Dante of yesterday.
If anyone could see through it, it was Zenon, the man known as the Empire’s Sword.
“To remain silent is to be executed.”
It was just an ordinary breakfast with the family in their mansion. No one had brought weapons.
But for Zenon, that hardly mattered.
Even with nothing but the small table knife before him, he was a man who could hold his own against an entire army.
Dante met the suffocating force head-on, as if his skin were being flayed apart.
‘Urgh!’
Even standing still to endure it was unbearable.
This was not the realm of [the sword], but the realm of [mana].
Though Dante had awakened his stigma only yesterday, he was still like an infant compared to Zenon, who had honed sword and mana his entire life.
Zenon was a man who looked down from the pinnacle at all other knights.
Even most stigma-awakened knights could not endure such a force calmly.
And yet—
Dante endured.
He didn’t have the leisure to answer, but at least he refused to stagger back or collapse.
Even if his body had regressed in age, the heights he had once climbed were not shallow.
Crack—!
Blood trickled from his bitten lip.
The crushing pressure of mana grew heavier by the moment.
‘I can’t… hold out much longer…’
At last, Dante had no choice but to draw upon what he had kept tightly sealed within.
Vroooom—
A light vibration rose from his chest as the bundled mana within him began to unravel.
It wasn’t much in quantity, but it was utterly pure, and it swiftly wrapped around his body.
Once, twice, three times it circulated.
With each cycle, the oppressive weight on his body lightened.
Zenon’s eyes widened, shock deepening in their depths.
He looked as if he had just witnessed something utterly unbelievable.
For an instant, his mana wavered.
A small crack, lasting no longer than a breath.
Dante seized it and opened his mouth.
“It’s me.”
Just two words.
That was all Dante could manage.
But as he spoke, looking straight into Zenon’s eyes, the suffocating pressure vanished as though it had never been.
“You…”
Zenon’s gaze swept rapidly over Dante’s face and chest, full of disbelief—
And then he suddenly let out a sharp laugh.
“Impossible. To awaken at your age? That’s an unheard-of miracle.”
Even Zenon, hailed as the greatest talent in imperial history, had not awakened his stigma until thirteen.
But Dante was only ten.
Even if one searched the entire history of the continent, there would be no record of someone reaching such a stage at this age.
It was so absurd that not even ancient myths mentioned it.
And Dante hadn’t even properly begun training yet.
“Last night…”
Dante intended to give a modified explanation of how he awakened—he couldn’t possibly mention he had returned to the past.
But Zenon raised a hand, cutting him off.
“That’s enough. What matters is not the process, but the result.”
Of course, there were countless suspicious points.
But the fact of Dante’s awakening was undeniable.
And that alone was all Zenon cared about.
“Breakfast is unnecessary.”
Creak—
Rising from his chair, Zenon strode toward Dante.
“Come to the training grounds. At once.”
With that, he left the dining room.
Time, which had seemed frozen, began to flow again.
The servants, who had been paralyzed with fear, hurriedly cleared away the untouched dishes as if nothing had happened.
“Haa…”
Seeing this, Dante finally released a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding.
‘Father truly is incredible.’
Before, he had only vaguely felt that his father was strong.
Without awakening his stigma back then, Dante hadn’t been able to comprehend even a fragment of Zenon’s true power.
But seeing him again now, he understood—Zenon more than deserved to be called the Empire’s Sword.
‘His swordsmanship must be extraordinary, too.’
Dante’s fingers itched.
If it was now…
“Young master!”
A worried cry from behind shattered his thoughts.
“Are you all right?”
Eina’s eyes were wide with panic, like a startled rabbit.
“Oh no, you’re bleeding!”
Spotting the blood at his lips, she pulled out a handkerchief, horrified.
“What on earth happened? Why would the master—?”
Fussing, she dabbed away the blood.
She had no idea what had just happened.
Zenon’s mana had been focused entirely on Dante, leaving her oblivious.
“I’m fine.”
Thanks to his evolved body, the wound had already clotted, and the bleeding had stopped.
Even his torn lip was nearly healed, leaving only a faint trace.
Eina, seeing this, tilted her head in confusion.
“That’s enough.”
Dante raised a hand to stop her.
“O-oh, forgive me.”
She stepped back.
“I’ll need to change clothes.”
Zenon had ordered him to the training grounds immediately.
That meant it was more important to gauge Dante’s level than to eat breakfast.
“I’ll go prepare first. Please follow slowly.”
Within the mansion, Zenon’s word outweighed even the emperor’s edict.
Though Eina felt sorry that Dante would be dragged out without food, she couldn’t object.
“Very well.”
As she darted off, Dante began walking back to his room, collecting his thoughts.
‘Things are different now.’
This hadn’t happened in the past.
With circumstances changed, the future would inevitably shift as well.
Every step he took could alter the path he once knew.
‘…Well, that’s fine.’
He had no intention of walking the same road again.
Nor should he.
He would walk a better path. Live a better life.
Lost in thought, Dante quickened his pace.
Though with his shorter legs, it wasn’t all that fast.
“Would these clothes do?”
When he arrived, Eina had already searched the dressing room and laid out several outfits fit for movement.
“Good.”
They would do well enough as temporary training clothes.
“Hurry and change, the master will be waiting.”
She looked even more anxious than Dante himself.
He chuckled faintly at her fussing, then changed.
“Please tidy the room for me. I can go to the training grounds on my own.”
“Yes, I’ll clean everything spotless. Please take care.”
With her half-farewell, Dante set out for the training grounds.
‘So quiet.’
When he arrived, silence weighed heavily.
The knights had already assembled, standing in rows, but not a sound could be heard.
All because of the man standing at the center—his father.
“You’re here.”
“Yes.”
Dante stopped before him.
Though his small frame barely reached his father’s waist, he lifted his head proudly and met his gaze.
Shing—
Without hesitation, Zenon drew the sword at his waist.
“This is yours.”
It was a silver blade, engraved with the golden lion emblem of their house.
Even its aura was extraordinary.
Sharp enough, it seemed, to split a shield with sheer edge alone.
‘This is different, too.’
In his past life, the sword he’d received had been fine, but not to this level.
“Take it.”
It was far too large for a ten-year-old child.
But neither giver nor receiver cared.
Grip—
“Ah…”
The cold touch of steel against his palm filled him with joy.
“Show me your sword.”
Zenon’s voice was heavy, but Dante could sense the faintest hint of expectation.
Dante stepped back, creating space.
Though the blade was nearly his height, his movements were unimpeded.
‘The tip must aim at the foe, the edge must stand tall, breath slow but strong!’
His arm rose.
Whooosh—!
Wind surged.
The mana naturally flowing into the blade pushed the air aside.
For someone wielding a true sword for the first time, his upper stance was flawless.
The knights watching from the side were visibly shocked.
‘And now—strike.’
His arms fell, the sword descending like a drop of water sliding across ice—smooth, inevitable.
“Stop.”
Clang—
At Zenon’s sudden command, Dante froze.
‘What?’
Had it only been words, he wouldn’t have stopped.
But the mana binding his body had forcibly cut off his will.
‘Why?’
He stared at his father, baffled.
Zenon had called him here, told him to swing his sword—
So why stop him now?
The knights watching were equally puzzled.
None dared voice it, but they glanced at Zenon curiously.
It had been a strike worthy of admiration.
“That is enough.”
But Zenon wore the expression of a man who had already seen all he needed.
“…Understood.”
Reluctantly, Dante lowered his sword and straightened.
He gazed at the blade in his hand, eyes full of regret.
To be stopped before even finishing his first strike—
“Was that truly your first time holding a sword?”
No.
But since returning to the past, it was the first.
Even the practice blade he’d taken yesterday had gone unused.
“Yes.”
He nodded.
Zenon studied him in silence, then gestured to the sword.
“That is now yours. It bears no name, so you may give it one.”
It was perhaps the finest blade in the family.
But Zenon seemed utterly unconcerned.
As if it was only natural—only fitting for Dante to wield such a weapon.
“God of the Sword may well be reborn.”
The words were muttered so softly that only Dante, standing close, could hear.
Though spoken in his usual calm tone, the meaning was astonishing.
“Train diligently. You shall be given all you require.”
