**1. Childhood**
The Hero from Another World.
The man who defeated the Demon King Valror and saved the continent from the threat of the demon race—Earth’s greatest hero.
But in this world, the name by which people called Han Sung was quite different.
**The Empire’s Hound. The butcher without blood or tears.**
It was no coincidence that Han Sung was suddenly summoned to another world one day. The ancient summoning ritual, painstakingly prepared by the Empire’s mage, had finally activated. Han Sung—SSS-rank monster hunter and Commander-in-Chief of Humanity’s Final Alliance—opened his eyes in another world.
He was never meant to be a savior. He was summoned purely as a **tool**—a weapon to realize the Empire’s ambition. Thus Han Sung was reborn as a human weapon bearing the hollow title of *Hero*.
After the Demon King was slain, the Empire declared a war of continental unification, with the “Hero from Another World” at its vanguard.
—
—
He adjusted his grip on his sword and slowly raised his head.
It was near the end of the Empire’s continental conquest—the final resistance of the Kingdom of Teutonia’s knightly state, within its capital fortress, Malbork.
Pale sleet drifted down through the veil of night.
A white and shadowed winter’s evening. The moment had come right after he felled the man called *the Sword Saint*, Sir Badel—the loyal vassal of Teutonia and famed as the continent’s greatest swordsman.
*Puk!*
A searing pain exploded in his back. The cold sensation of metal. A blade burst through his chest, gleaming with an icy-blue sheen.
“Tch… damn it.”
After a battle fought to the death, the blade that found him belonged not to the enemy—but to his own Empire’s army.
“Well done, Hero from Another World.”
It was the voice of **Count Brandenburg**, wielder of the holy sword *Durandal*.
“I figured as much,” Han Sung muttered.
His body was too exhausted to evade the ally’s treacherous strike from behind.
“Pathetic bastards… only good at stabbing their own in the back.”
Once, he had fought in the name of a hero and slain the Demon King.
But that was only the beginning. Afterward, he became nothing more than a machine of conquest to fulfill the Empire’s insatiable greed.
He had killed the Demon King, achieved the unification the Empire so desperately craved. And after that?
*Thrown away like a used hunting dog.*
“You have chosen a noble death here, alongside the Sword Saint Badel,” said Count Brandenburg.
A “noble death”? Han Sung couldn’t even muster a bitter laugh.
“Your patriotism and sacrifice for the Empire shall be remembered for all eternity.”
“Hah. Even the South Korean Ministry of Defense would cry hearing that.”
Blood dripped from Han Sung’s lips as he sneered. The blade in his hand still glimmered with killing intent, ready to cut down the man before him.
But just as he moved to swing, his body froze in place.
It was the *Geas*—the binding oath enforced by the Empire’s White Tower.
“Filthy bastards.”
The leash used to tame the Empire’s Hero—the Hound from Another World.
“Tell me,” the Count taunted coldly, “who is truly the dog here?”
“Yeah… you dogs are worse than I ever was.”
Han Sung spat the words through clenched teeth.
He would die here, together with the continent’s greatest swordsman whom he himself had slain.
The long hunt was finally over.
Count Brandenburg, Commander of the Empire’s 1st Legion, was the executor of this betrayal.
Han Sung quietly fell to his knees. His head sank into the snow, and his eyes drifted shut. Yet his expression remained calm—almost serene.
Not even a curse for the Empire that had discarded him.
Thus, the *Hero from Another World* closed his eyes.
He vowed that in the next life, he would not be a hero thrown away like a rag—but a Demon King, without blood or tears.
And as the final spark of life faded, a small stone embedded deep within Han Sung’s body began to glow faintly.
Then—
“Congratulations, Your Grace! It’s a boy!”
On that same white and shadowed winter night, as snowflakes danced through the air, one life closed its eyes… and another opened them.
—
—
“Congratulations, Your Grace! It’s a boy!”
A shrill old woman’s voice rang in his ears. The pain of Durandal piercing him moments ago had vanished like a lie.
*Where… am I?*
Han Sung tried to survey his surroundings to grasp the situation—but even keeping his body upright was difficult.
Everything around him glowed blindingly white. His consciousness felt heavy, as if weighed down by lead.
His body felt absurdly small and light.
Then—he felt the soft, warm touch of swaddling cloth wrapping around him.
Twisting his tiny body, Han Sung looked up at the woman holding him—a young lady with radiant golden hair.
He vaguely recognized her face. As the Empire’s Hero, he had met many of its noble families.
*If I remember right, she was the daughter of a count…*
“You’ve done well, Elena.”
*Elena—the count’s daughter who married the Duke of Saxen!*
The moment he heard that name, a shock like a hammer blow struck his mind.
Then the man gazing down with gentle eyes must be…
The Grand Duke who governed the former Demon King’s territory after Valror’s defeat—the northern province now an imperial fief.
A member of the Empire’s three ducal houses.
**The Duke of Saxen.**
At last, the puzzle pieces clicked into place.
*The reincarnation worked!*
The secret trump card to break free from his leash—the artifact he’d obtained with immense difficulty, *the Stone of Rebirth*—had done its job.
And he had been reborn as the firstborn son of one of the Empire’s greatest noble families.
But that was not all.
The Duke of Saxen was not only a great noble—he was also the Master of the Black Tower, the heart of the necromantic order known as Necropolis.
The strongest necromancer and black magician on the continent.
The man known as **Lord Black**.
It was no coincidence that the Duke had been granted dominion over the former Demon King’s lands.
The *Stone of Rebirth* allowed one’s consciousness and memory to pass intact into the cycle of reincarnation—but it could not choose the next vessel. To be reborn as a noble or a beggar’s child was a matter of pure fate.
And yet—Han Sung had drawn the golden lot.
*Never thought I’d live to be born with a silver spoon in my mouth.*
While Han Sung calmly assessed his situation, the Duke spoke with concern.
“Midwife, why isn’t the child crying?”
Even the mighty Lord Black could not help but worry for his son.
“How strange. He’s breathing so clearly, and yet…”
“Isn’t a silent newborn considered a bad omen?”
“His breathing is steady, Your Grace. There’s no cause for alarm.”
The old woman approached him. Han Sung made a point to breathe deeply, just to prove he was fine.
“Still, since Your Grace is concerned…”
*Smack!*
The midwife took him from Elena and gave his backside a firm slap.
“You must strike him until he cries!”
Han Sung cursed inwardly and struggled, but there was little a newborn body could do.
“What a stubborn child!”
The Duke murmured in astonishment.
“He must take after your obstinacy,” Elena said gently, smiling like a young mother.
“Here, let me try.”
Her soft, delicate hand—still more maiden than mother—landed on his tiny bottom.
And so, Han Sung—who had never shed a tear even in the face of death—finally wailed helplessly for the first time in his life.
—
—
**Dale of Saxen.**
As the saying goes, new wine must be put into new wineskins—and so Han Sung’s second life took on a new name: Dale, the firstborn son of House Saxen.
Under the tender care of the Duke and Duchess, *Dale* waited patiently for his time.
Listening, from time to time, to the Duke, Duchess, attendants, and retainers speak of the Empire’s politics.
Even though his consciousness was perfectly intact thanks to the artifact, his infant body was not.
It was a long, grueling period of endurance.
And when that ordeal finally ended, Dale was granted the gift of language.
“Oh my, just look at our Dale!”
Like all mothers, Elena was brimming with the “my child is a genius” conviction. But in this case, it wasn’t mere delusion.
At just four years old, Dale spoke both the Imperial tongue and the noble dialect fluently—his thirst for learning truly astonishing.
He buried himself in the Ducal Library, devouring books day and night.
*Basic and Applied Mana Sensitivity*
*Imperial Army Tactical Magic Manual*
*Correlation Between Mana Circle Rotation Rate and Energy Generation*
*Understanding Spell Enhancement Through Equations*
*Introduction to Rune Magic*
Books were brought from the capital and across the continent, one after another, at his request.
*Being born rich sure has its perks.*
Leaning against an old bookshelf after finishing another tome, Dale thought of his past home—Earth.
Back then, when he first awakened as a monster hunter, he had fought with a sense of duty—for humanity’s sake. But in this world, things had been different.
The number of demons and monsters he slew under the name of Hero paled compared to the countless *humans* he butchered as the Empire’s hound.
That was why his goal had never wavered:
*With these hands, I will bring down the Empire.*
He bit his lip softly, reaffirming his resolve.
Then—
*Whoosh!*
Cold hatred surged through him, and wind began to swirl at his feet—a vortex of mana.
*Ah, damn.*
His young body had let his emotions run wild, causing the mana within him to go berserk. Though he hadn’t told his parents, he had already begun forming fragments of a mana circle within his heart.
*Whooosh!*
The whirlwind grew, sending books and shelves toppling in a domino of chaos.
“Well… that escalated quickly.”
Sitting amidst the wreckage of the library, Dale sighed weakly.
“—Dale.”
A familiar presence.
“What is this commotion?”
It was his father—the Duke of Saxen, Lord Black.
Books and splinters scattered everywhere, the air still humming with mana. Dale paused, wondering what a four-year-old’s best excuse would be—and then gave up thinking. A four-year-old wouldn’t think at all.
“Did you just release mana from your body?”
“Uh… I don’t know. A weird wind started blowing around my feet…”
Feigning innocence, Dale played the part of a clueless child unaware of his own gift.
The Duke’s eyes widened in astonishment.
“You’ve already formed fragments of a mana circle?!”
The tone was nearly one of awe. Dale winced internally.
Natural mana sensitivity wasn’t unheard of—but even among those of magical bloodlines, such a feat at four years old was unthinkable. That was why he had planned to hide it until a better time.
He understood the danger of his talent. Between a “prodigy” and a “monster,” there was only a paper-thin line.
“As expected of my son,” the Duke said at last, smiling—without hiding his pride.
“It pains me that I cannot teach you necromancy.”
Dale blinked. That was the last thing he had expected to hear.
The greatest necromancer on the continent… refusing to pass on his craft to his own son?
“Why not?” Dale asked, feigning curiosity.
“I promised your mother that our child would not inherit my dark art.”
The Duke’s face carried unmistakable regret.
*Well, of course… what mother would want her child to become a necromancer?*
When the Duke had courted the much younger Count’s daughter Elena, he had made that very promise—to ease her fear of his notorious reputation.
Rumor even said that on their wedding day, the Duke and all the elders of the Black Tower had attended dressed in pure white.
Despite everything, the Duke of Saxen was still one of the Empire’s foremost nobles. The lengths he had gone for his wife proved that even the feared Lord Black had once been a man of earnest devotion.
Four years is not a short time—especially four years confined in a baby’s body, nurtured by a loving family.
And so, life in House Saxen awakened in Dale something he had long forgotten—
**the feeling of warmth.**
