Chapter 17
[Soul Requiem Sword]
A sword that soothes the souls of the dead.
It reads and absorbs the remnants of thought—the residual will—that the deceased left behind in this world.
A mysterious power that honors their dying words and inherits their unfulfilled legacy.
“Residual will? Legacy?”
Having never encountered such an ability before, Carlisle couldn’t quite grasp its meaning.
There simply wasn’t enough information about the Soul Requiem Sword to fully understand it.
“It absorbs the thoughts of the dead? ‘Dying words’ must mean their final words before death… and a ‘legacy’ is their unfulfilled purpose in life? So it inherits that?”
He pondered for a long while, but couldn’t make any concrete guesses.
He had a rough idea, but it was clear that he wouldn’t know for sure until he actually tried using it.
Still, one thing was certain: Carlisle von Sigmund possessed truly extraordinary potential.
Even without this mysterious ability, the mere Master of Weapons trait—which increased weapon proficiency by 500%—would be enough to make him a powerhouse in time.
And now, on top of that, Soul Requiem Sword?
Had the real Carlisle ever sobered up and trained seriously, the history of this world might have taken an entirely different course.
But instead, he’d wasted his life in debauchery…
Even without the Transcendence Stone, a little effort could have awakened his dormant talent and made him a great hero.
“Though… maybe that talent is mine now.”
Carlisle couldn’t shake the thought that both Master of Weapons and Soul Requiem Sword might now be his innate abilities.
After all, when he first possessed this body and all traits were reset, those two abilities had been added to his list.
[Carlisle von Sigmund]
Race: Human
Age: 23
Status: Noble
Occupation: Unemployed (Degenerate)
Traits: Master of Weapons / Soul Requiem Sword
Title: The Mad Dog of the North
“This should be more than enough to protect myself.”
The use of the Transcendence Stone had definitely not been a waste.
“Master, it’s time for your training.”
Just then, Maranello came to find him.
“Ah.”
Carlisle tossed the now dull, lifeless Transcendence Stone onto the bed and rose to his feet.
“Yeah, let’s train.”
“I hope you won’t give up halfway today, young master.”
Maranello held up his ever-present feather duster.
“Don’t expect too much. I’ll just take it easy.”
“If you take it easy, you won’t survive. Your enemies have trained day and night, sharpening themselves for the sole purpose of killing you.”
“…Right.”
It wasn’t an unreasonable point, so Carlisle didn’t argue.
“No promises, but… I’ll do my best.”
“That’s all I ask.”
Maranello smiled faintly.
* * *
Maranello led Carlisle outside the castle walls.
Since Carlisle wanted a secluded place where no one could see him, they had little choice but to go that far.
After a 30-minute horseback ride, they arrived at an old, crumbling fortress ruin.
Once, 200 years ago, it had been destroyed during a barbarian invasion—and since then, abandoned to time.
The air was heavy and desolate.
“No one will find you here, young master.”
“Good.”
Carlisle scanned the open ground.
The weeds were overgrown, but there was still plenty of space to train.
“Where is this place?”
“This was once the knights’ training ground, two centuries ago.”
“I see.”
Carlisle nodded.
“So basically, we’re sneaking out here to… oil our swords at night?”
“Pardon?”
“We’re training in secret.”
“What would an old man like me do with sword training at my age? Just stretching for my health, that’s all. Haha.”
“Sure you are.”
Carlisle snorted, drew his practice sword, and took his stance.
“No warm-ups?”
“Not necessary. Don’t worry about it.”
“Very well. Then come, young master.”
Carlisle swung his wooden sword, following the Sigmund family’s sword style from memory.
Swaaaash!
The air split sharply — proof that his strength had grown significantly.
Clack, clack!
Maranello’s feather duster struck and deflected Carlisle’s blows.
The fragile tool didn’t even break, and yet—Carlisle could feel the impact through his arms was now a tenth of what it used to be.
“Not bad.”
He struck again, pressing the attack.
Clack, clack, clack—tap.
The tip of Maranello’s feather duster lightly brushed Carlisle’s neck.
“…Dead.”
“Swordsmanship isn’t about brute strength, young master.”
“You mean knowing when to use force, and when not to?”
“Exactly. You remember.”
Maranello smiled faintly at Carlisle’s words.
“If you just swing wildly, you’ll tire yourself out quickly.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.”
Carlisle focused again, swinging his sword.
Clack, clack, clack, clack, tap.
“Dead again.”
“Again.”
Clack, clack, clack, clack, clack—tap.
“Dead.”
“Again.”
And so their sparring continued.
Maranello soon noticed something strange.
“…?”
Each round, Carlisle lasted a little longer.
His movements were sharper, cleaner.
‘He’s improving in real time?’
Maranello assumed it was just old memories resurfacing.
After all, Carlisle had trained seriously as a child and was known for his natural talent.
But what truly surprised him wasn’t the technique—it was Carlisle’s stamina.
“Again.”
“Yes, young master.”
Even after ten bouts, Carlisle wasn’t even breathing hard.
Just days ago, he would have collapsed after a few swings.
‘His stamina too? Good heavens…’
His strength had already skyrocketed overnight—and now his endurance as well?
It was beyond belief.
Carlisle, too, felt the change.
[Alert: Swordsmanship proficiency +1]
[Alert: Swordsmanship proficiency +1]
He could see his proficiency rising in real time—and he could feel it in his body.
[Alert: Swordsmanship proficiency level up!]
[Alert: Swordsmanship Lv. 2 achieved!]
And then he stopped.
“That’s enough for today.”
“What?” Maranello frowned.
Barely an hour of training—and he was already quitting?
“Why stop now, young master?”
“I’m tired.”
“You seem perfectly fine to me.”
“I am.”
Carlisle admitted easily.
“I just don’t feel like doing more.”
“You must!”
“Why?”
“Because training means pushing past your limits every day. If you stop whenever it’s tiring—”
“What can I say? I just don’t feel like it.”
“…Pardon?”
“I don’t know how to explain it, but… I just don’t want to try.”
He meant it.
Even Carlisle himself didn’t understand why.
He wasn’t tired—his body was brimming with energy. He could probably train all night.
And yet, the moment things got difficult, his mind rejected it.
As if some deep-rooted habit—or perhaps his old-world lethargy—was dragging him down.
“Young master, no matter how talented you are, you won’t grow strong without effort.”
“I know that.”
“Then why—”
“Maybe effort is a talent too.”
“…Young master.”
Maranello shut his eyes, struggling to suppress his frustration.
“I know it sounds ridiculous. But that’s just how I feel right now.”
“…Understood.”
And so the day’s training ended—not in passion, but in apathy.
* * *
The next day.
And the day after that.
Nothing changed.
Carlisle’s sword proficiency steadily rose—but his training time did not.
“Young master, please. Your life depends on this. You must push yourself—”
“I know. I’m trying. But my body just won’t move.”
He was just as frustrated.
In a few months, he’d be thrown onto a battlefield.
He didn’t want his head chopped off by some nameless barbarian.
“Go on ahead. I’ll practice my form a bit longer.”
“I should stay with you—”
“Then wait outside. I’ll be fine.”
“…As you wish.”
Once Maranello left—
“Ugh… ngh…”
Carlisle gritted his teeth, forcing himself to move.
But his body refused.
Even the act of trying felt unbearable.
‘Is this some kind of curse?’
He almost believed it.
‘Maybe that saying—“effort is a talent”—wasn’t a joke after all…’
And then—
Ding!
A window appeared before his eyes.
[Alert: Detected traces of the dead.]
[Alert: A residual will is nearby.]
“Residual will?”
[Residual Will]
The lingering soul bound to a specific place or object.
Only those who possess the power of the Soul Requiem Sword can perceive and absorb it.
“So… something like a haunted place or cursed item?”
Even after reading the description, he wasn’t sure.
But curiosity burned in him nonetheless.
He had wanted to test Soul Requiem Sword anyway.
And since he couldn’t force himself to keep training, this seemed like a good excuse to stretch his legs.
“Let’s see what this is about.”
He focused his senses and followed the faint pull he felt.
After walking about a hundred meters—
He found faint, glowing footprints in the overgrown grass.
“Footprints? Glowing?”
Drawing his real sword, Carlisle cut away the thick weeds.
The glowing tracks came into full view.
[Alert: Residual Will detected.]
[Alert: Reading traces left by the dead.]
Suddenly, a completely different scene unfolded before Carlisle’s eyes.
A memory—belonging to a knight who had lived 200 years ago.
