Dorian blinked. "What?"
"Surrender the rust sword and your son," the Viscount's herald announced, "and you may keep your land."
"Silvera the Rust!" Dorian laughed, shoving Cain into the mud. "Even your name is corroded. My dog has more magic."
Chronicles of an Aristocrat Reborn in Another World Dorian blinked
The third thing he noticed was the silence.
The Rusted Heirloom
He paused, seeing the doubt in their eyes. My dog has more magic
Ghost? he thought. I've written dissertations on how ghosts win wars. You just need to change the definition of "win." At age five, Cain was a disappointment to the county. He was pale, sickly, and his mana output was barely measurable. Other noble children could spark flames or levitate pebbles. Cain could only make a single, cold bead of sweat appear on his fingertip after ten minutes of concentration.
But death was not an end. It was a reassignment . The first thing Cain von Silvera noticed was the smell. Not antiseptic, like a hospital, but of hay, woodsmoke, and sour milk. The second was the weight. His limbs were too short, his lungs too weak, and his vision blurred at the edges.
He walked away, leaving the bully confused and slightly afraid. he thought
The moment his fingers touched the pitted blade, a voice echoed in his mind—not magical, but historical .
"Seventy-two," Cain said, getting up. "Assuming standard supply lines, a morale coefficient of 0.4, and a single, well-timed night raid on their water source. Your father's territory has a hill fort. I read the census last night. Sleep well."