Gray opened his eyes, and the first thing he noticed was the absence of the sword.
The weapon, which he had been holding just moments ago, had vanished as if it had never existed.
In its place, the rune on his wrist pulsed with a soft, dim light, a faint glow that signified his partial success in controlling its power.
But there was no sense of triumph in his heart, no feeling of accomplishment.
Thump! Thump!
His heart pounded, the sound echoing in his ears like a drumbeat as the memory that had surfaced moments ago lingered like a dagger lodged deep in his chest.
It felt as though someone had taken that blade and twisted it, sending waves of anguish through him.
His breath came in uneven gasps, his body trembling with the aftershocks of the emotional turmoil.
The heavy throb of pain in his chest reverberated through his body, his vision clouded by the overlap of his past life with the memory he had just witnessed.
The faces of those who had betrayed him in both lives blurred together, making it difficult to separate the pain of one from the other.
A cruel reminder of the betrayals he had suffered, the deep wounds that had never truly healed.
His body was drenched in sweat, the cool air of the room doing little to alleviate the sticky discomfort.
Slick.
The bed beneath him was soaked through, the sheets clinging to his skin as if trying to suffocate him further.
Every muscle in his body was tense, as though he had just fought a battle within his own mind and emerged barely victorious.
Gray's chest heaved as he struggled to regain control, to push the memories back into the recesses of his mind where they belonged.
Whoosh.
He exhaled deeply, trying to release the tension, but it was difficult—too difficult—when the pain was so fresh, so raw.
The betrayal, the abandonment, the sense of worthlessness that had been instilled in him from such a young age; all of it resurfaced, threatening to drown him once again.
The intensity of his reaction puzzled even him. These weren't his memories. Not truly.
And yet, they struck him with the weight of lived experience.
It wasn't just in his mind—it was in his flesh, in his nerves, in the tremble of his limbs.
His body was responding to echoes that did not belong to him.
Fragments of the former soul that once inhabited this vessel still lingered, etched into muscle and marrow. And now, they bled into him—imprinting their sorrow, their fear, their pain.
Even when his mind remained calm, his body recoiled, as though haunted by ghosts he had never met.
Understanding this, Gray drew in a deep breath, grounding himself.
Slowly, steadily, he wrestled control back from the memories—not by denying them, but by accepting their presence.
As the rune's glow on his wrist began to fade, he lowered his gaze to it.
A dim shimmer. A heartbeat of power.
He closed his eyes again, trying to steady his breathing.
Huff. Huff.
The sound of his breath, sharp and ragged, echoed in the quiet room.
But little by little, the tremors in his body began to subside, and the suffocating weight on his chest lightened, if only a little.
Tik-Tok.
The sound of the clock in the room marked the passage of time, a reminder that this was just one battle in a war that would never truly end.
But for now, he had won.
He had mastered the rune, even if only partially, and he had survived the onslaught of his own mind.
There was no joy in the victory, no sense of relief.
But there was a grim determination, a resolve that burned brighter than the rune on his wrist.
He would not be broken by the past again. After all he had endured too much, lost too much, to let it consume him now.
Drip... Drip...
The sound of water falling from his damp hair echoed in the silence as he lay there, his body aching and drenched in sweat.
Gray's thoughts began to settle.
The pain in his heart was still there, but it was a familiar pain, one he had learned to live with.
He had suffered in both lives, but he had also grown stronger because of it.
And as long as he drew breath, he would continue to fight—to master the power of this world, to face whatever challenges lay ahead, and to carve out his own destiny, free from the chains of the past.
After he calmed down, Gray looked at his clothes, now covered in sticky sweat.
Squish.
The uncomfortable sound accompanied his movement as he shifted on the bed.
Being a bit of a clean freak, his mood, already dampened by the memories, worsened.
"I should get a bath,"
He thought as he stood up and opened the door to the washroom.
Creak...
The door creaked as it reluctantly swung open.
"…"
Gray froze at the sight before him.
His face remained expressionless, but inside, a surge of irritation flared, almost compelling him to burn the entire inn to the ground.
The reason was simple: the washroom was far filthier than he could have imagined—disgustingly so.
Each step he took on the grimy floor added to his disgust.
Disgusted, he walked in and cleaned himself quickly.
Splash, splash.
The sound of water echoed as he rinsed away the grime.
After five minutes, he emerged, a towel around his lower body and another in his hand to dry his hair.
His black hair, darker than the night, was wet, droplets of water falling like tiny jewels.
He looked at the cracked mirror, noticing his black hair and two golden eyes on a pale face.
He stared at the unfamiliar features.
He still wasn't comfortable with them.
In his previous life, Gray had white hair, so the black hair was new to him.
He stared at the mirror... No, he stared at his new body—a skinny frame with no visible muscles.
The only thing this body had going for it was the face.
Yes, The only redeeming quality was its face—hauntingly beautiful. So much so that even the royal families of his old world might pale in comparison.
And the reason was...
Those golden eyes...
That inhuman brilliance.
But to Gray, beauty meant little.
Thump, Thump.
His heart resonated with the imagined sound of battle.
What use was a good-looking face in the face of chaos?
On the battlefield—where screams filled the air, blades tore through flesh, and blood fell like ash—beauty was not a shield.
It was a beacon. A pretty target to ruin.
No one ever stopped mid-swing just because someone was handsome. If anything, beauty made it worse. It made you easier to notice. Easier to hurt.
Gray had seen it happen.
He had seen what war did to people.
When bloodlust took over, men became worse than beasts.
Their eyes with the loss humanity turned empty, their minds hollow.
They didn't care who you were, or how you looked. They just wanted to kill.
And in those moments, beauty didn't save you.
It doomed you.
He had fought monsters like that.
Hell—he had been one himself.
So what good was a face, no matter how flawless, in a world like this?
To Gray, such beauty was useless.
But then again… beauty was not entirely.
No, far from being useless.
beauty was in fact quite dangerous.
Not like fire or blades—but in a quieter, more poisonous way.
Beauty slipped into the mind, pulled at the heart, clouded reason.
It made people forget themselves. Especially men.
Its not hard to find men who destroy themself in their own lust
Lust was the real poison.
It didn't kill quickly.
It rotted you from the inside.
Slowly.
Sweetly.
And when you notice it was already to late
because there was nothing left.
Gray had seen strong men fall apart because of a single beautiful woman. Even rulers—men with soldiers, castles, and kingdoms—reduced to begging. Chained by their own lust like dogs.
One smile from the right woman… and they'd give up everything.
Their crown. Their pride. Their minds.
They'd kneel just for a chance to be touched.
And once they were used up?
Tossed aside like trash.
Gray had met women like that. Beautiful. Deadly. The kind who didn't need weapons—because they were the weapon. They made men fight over them.
Made fools destroy each other just for attention.
All with a laugh and a look.
Most men are fools.
They walk around thinking they're strong, thinking they're in control. Thinking they're choosing who to love, who to protect.
But the truth?
They're being played. Controlled like puppets. Strings pulled tight—and they don't even notice.
Women don't need strength to win. They don't need power, or force, or weapons.They win with weakness. With softness. With lies wrapped in smiles.
It's not something they're taught.
It's in their blood.
Just like a child cries to get a toy—women play weak to get what they want.
And it works.
Men fall for it every time.
The strong become weak in front of a pretty face. be it Kings. Warlords. Or the Entire empires. they all break apart because some fool couldn't say no to a pair of lips and some painted skin.
It's laughable.
No—it's disgusting.
And worse? it's Common.
The world is full of men who bragged about being strong while crawling behind women like dogs.
They didn't even see the chains around their necks, pulled along by their own craving.
Smiling as they walked toward ruin.
In that kind of world, beauty became the deadliest weapon.
They didn't need armies. They didn't need swords. They didn't even need to raise their voice.
All they had to do… was exist.
A tilt of the head. A fake little smile. A soft hand resting on your arm like they needed you.
And just like that?
The strongest men in the room—men who had survived wars, ruled kingdoms, crushed enemies—turned into fools. Dropping everything just to hear a compliment. Just to feel "chosen."
Gray had seen it too many times. to the point he was now bored of seeing the same thing again and again.
in his past life grey had met womens who didn't conquer cities—they conquered men.
After all, why take the city by force when you can have the man who rules it bowing at your feet?
That was the real power of beauty.
But it didn't end there.
Those women didn't just take control—they fed on it.
They acted helpless, made you feel strong, made you want to protect them. And while you burned yourself to keep them warm, they smiled. They let you shine for a while—until your light faded.
Then they discarded you like an old coin. Used. Empty.
Gray had watched this cycle again and again.
And every time, the men thanked them for it.
They willingly scarifies themselves in the name of love.
But what disgusted Gray most was not the manipulation.
It was how willing men were to be part of it.
They sacrificed themselves in the name of love.
Smiling as they fell.
Proud of their own ruin.
It was really pathetic.
Sometimes Gray would read those so-called romance stories, just to amuse himself.
The "ideal man" they always talked about?
Tall. Handsome. Rich. Strong enough to fight armies. Cold to the world, but soft for one special girl.
Gray couldn't help but laugh.
He laughed at the stupidity.
At the weakness.
At how easily society trained men to chain themselves.
That was the perfect man?
A beast for the world, a dog for a girl?
It was disgusting.
A man like that wasn't strong.
He was broken—just dressed in gold to hide the cracks.
A dog wearing the skin of a loin.
People called it romance.
Gray called it rot.
He was broken—just dressed in gold to hide the cracks.
A dog wearing the skin of a lion.
People called it romance.
Gray called it rot.
A slow, creeping disease.
Not of the body—but of the mind.
A sickness infecting an entire generation.
A rot that stripped men of their pride, their power, their purpose.
It taught them to kneel and smile.
To trade strength for softness.
To wear chains and call it love.
And worst of all?
They thanked the ones who shackled them.
But could that kind of trick work on him?
Could soft skin and painted lips sway someone who had burned the weakness out of his soul?
No.
What was so special about beauty, anyway?
Cut them, they bleed the same.
Strip away the skin, they look like anyone else—bone and flesh, nothing more.
To Gray, humans ruled by lust were lower than worms. At least worms didn't pretend to be noble.
No beauty could bind him.
No lust could twist him.
Because Gray had done what most men never could:
He had conquered himself.
A man's mind is his greatest ally—or his worst enemy.
If a man doesn't control his mind, The mind will control him.
And a men control by his mind is nothing a but a fool walking on the path of self destruction.
His mind will turn on him—twisting his thoughts, feeding his fears, drowning him in weakness.
But if One masters it?
Then nothing could touch them.
No fear. No pain. Not even lust.
A man like that could not be broken.
A man like that could not be controlled...
Unshaken. Unchained.
And only then—only then—could he be truly free.
But just like women had their beauty, men had their own.
They wore no makeup, no flowing dresses, no soft smiles to charm the world.
No. A man's beauty was different.
It was in his pride.
His arrogance.
Those were his jewelry. Not gold, not silver—but the way he stood tall when others bowed.
The way he looked the world in the eye without flinching.
A real man wore his pride like a crown.
His arrogance like armor.
Pride sharp enough to cut a mountain in half.
Arrogance bold enough to look down on heaven itself.
That was true power. That was true beauty.
Not something given, not something faked—but earned.
And most men?
They never understood that.
They spent their lives chasing after approval, begging for love, bending their backs for scraps of attention.
Only a few would ever grasp the truth.
And when they did—it was already too late for them.
But not Gray.
He was one of the lucky ones.
He had seen it early.
Understood it before the time could drown it out of him.
That was why he stood alone—and above everyone else.
Because he had become a true man.
As he stared into the mirror, there was no shame in his eyes.
Only pride.
Only arrogance.
And to him, that was what made him beautiful.
"Heh."
A quiet, almost scornful chuckle slipped from his lips as he stared at the mirror. Not at the face—but through it.
At the ghost of who he used to be.
Even after everything that had happened, he hadn't lost it—his pride.
Not even death had been able to strip it from him.
It clung to him like a second skin, woven into every breath, every thought.
Gray's lips curled up into a prideful smile before he shook his head and looked at his bed... no, more accurately, at his weapons.
The sound of metal echoed softly as he handled each one.
He could now use runes easily, so he picked up each weapon and placed it inside his rune.
Whoosh.
The weapons vanished in an instant, drawn back into the rune etched on his wrist. Its glow pulsed faintly—less violent now, more obedient. It was growing familiar. Tamed.
He stepped toward the window, silent, still.
The first light of dawn stretched across the sky, pale and cold.
Caw… caw…
The distant cry of a crow echoed through the morning air—a grim sound, a fitting herald.
Gray's eyes narrowed as he watched the sun rise over a city still asleep.
"Now… it's time to take back what's mine," he muttered under his breath.
A thin, crooked smile spread across his face. Not one of joy—but calculation. Cruelty.
The kind of smile that hinted at buried intentions.
At blood yet to be spilled.
And just like that, he turned away—leaving only the whisper of steel and the fading cry of the crow behind him.
The hunt had begun.