TMFATS 10

Chapter 10

Before my regression, I was called the Sword God.

But that wasn’t the only title people used for me.

Among them, the most well-known was—

“Wandering mercenary Reagan. Sword God. They say you’re the natural enemy of mages, don’t they?”

The natural enemy of mages.

There wasn’t any grand story behind that nickname.

The war was centered around the Mage King’s forces and the continental army resisting them. As a mercenary fighting on the battlefield, I naturally ended up hunting mages.

“I’ve heard you’ve already slain dozens of 7th-circle mages. That’s an absurd achievement for a mere swordsman.”

The reason Renia, who led the resistance before my regression, came to find me was also because of that.

Sure, the lack of swordmasters in the war played a role—but more than anything, it was because she had heard the rumors about me.

Back then, unlike ordinary knights, I was known as a mercenary who was exceptionally good at killing mages.

The reason was this “vision” I possessed.

“Your eyes are quite fascinating, Mr. Reagan. I wonder how you came to have such a talent.”

I used to think my ability wasn’t anything special. But after hearing Renia’s explanation, I finally understood just how extraordinary this vision of mine was.

My eyes can see the structure of magic.

Just as the construction phase is the most crucial in spellcasting, magic is ultimately about precise design. If that structure collapses, the spell inevitably falls apart.

In other words, being able to visually identify the core of a spell is no different from seeing straight through a mage’s weakness.

Of course, even if I could see the core, it would be meaningless if I couldn’t swing my sword faster than the spell could activate. That’s why my swordsmanship developed with a focus on precision and speed rather than sheer power.

By the time I reached the level of Swordmaster, what remained was a perfectly refined blade—one that discarded all excess, a sword that didn’t even assume a clash with an opponent.

After surviving countless life-and-death battles together, Renia once gave my swordsmanship a name over drinks.

“How about Demon-Breaking Sword?”

It might have sounded a bit childish, but her naming wasn’t wrong.

—Slash!

Even with nothing more than a branch—without a trace of aura—I could cut through the rune magic Arno unleashed.

Rumble!

The spells that had lost their cores all went berserk at once.

The flames burned aimlessly through the air, the cutting wind howled like a beast turning on its master, and the ground cracked and surged unpredictably.

“T-This is impossible…!”

Arno staggered back.

A skilled mage could have controlled a runaway spell, but Arno was still just a 3rd-circle novice. For all his talent, he lacked experience.

“Well, for his age, this is still impressive.”

In the modern magic system divided into ten circles, the 3rd circle might not seem extraordinary—but even reaching that level typically required over a decade of dedication.

And Arno Benheim hadn’t even come of age yet. He was undoubtedly a genius.

Not to mention, he wasn’t an ordinary 3rd-circle mage. He was on the verge of the 4th circle, capable of overwhelming others of the same level.

If even mages of equal rank struggled against him, then someone without a mana core wouldn’t stand a chance breaking through those spells.

But—

This time, he simply had the wrong opponent.

I am no amateur.

I once fought side by side with a great archmage who had reached the pinnacle of rune magic. Breaking low-circle spells like these wasn’t difficult.

Maintaining my balance on the writhing ground, I tightened my grip on the branch.

My left hand rose forward, while my right pulled back toward my waist.

Even amid the raging magic, my sharpened senses kept me steady.

My target was Arno Benheim himself—standing behind the wall of flames, unsure of what to do.

Honestly, even if I left things as they were, Sheryl would likely intervene. But I intended to secure a decisive victory.

I steadied my breath.

Then I took a step forward, shifting my center of gravity.

‘First step.’

The twisting ground grabbed at my ankle.

But I had no intention of falling.

Whoosh!

I twisted my body, driving power into my right foot.

Before the ground could catch up, my weight had already shifted—my left foot stepping through empty air.

And in that fleeting moment—

I took the next step.

‘Second step.’

I saw the gaps in the chaos.

The flames were fierce, but with the mana links severed, their flow was unstable.

And I could clearly perceive that with my eyes.

‘Third step.’

In just three steps, I passed through the raging magic and arrived right in front of Arno.

The spells roared violently. Flames and wind combined into a destructive storm—just brushing against it would tear flesh apart.

—Woooong.

A rune, Kenaz, formed in my left hand.

I engraved it onto the branch in my right. It was temporary, but it would be enough to disrupt his mana.

Tap.

Like plucking a string, I pushed off the ground with my toes and lowered my body.

Then, like a streak of light, I dashed forward and swung.

—Fwoosh!

Through the gap I carved in the magic, Arno stood there, mouth agape.

“Y-You cut it? Magic?”

Once could be dismissed as coincidence.

But twice, three times—that made it inevitable.

“I don’t hold any grudge, by the way.”

Now standing right before the defenseless Arno, I lowered the branch and raised my fist.

To stop the rampaging magic, the caster had to be taken down.

“W-Wait! I can still—!”

Before he could finish—

My fist shot forward.

First, a strike under the chin.

Smack!

Then my left hand struck his shoulder.

I didn’t miss the moment he lost his balance.

Thud!

Hooking his shin with my foot, I flipped him over.

“Gah!”

Boom!

Arno slammed headfirst into the ground.

That was the end of it.

The news reached the head of the house, Stern von Benheim, around sunset.

The steward Allet and the dark mage Sheryl delivered the report, and as Stern sipped his tea, his eyes narrowed.

“My son… challenged that boy Reagan to a duel?”

To be honest, Stern had somewhat expected it. Arno was at an age full of vigor—it was only natural he would feel competitive toward a newly arrived mage.

But what truly shocked him was what came next.

“…And he lost?”

“Yes. Regrettably, that is correct.”

“My son… lost to that boy?”

Stern turned to Allet for confirmation, and the steward reluctantly nodded.

“Was it a fair fight?”

“Sheryl was present as a witness.”

Allet stepped aside, and Sheryl lowered her head.

“Tell me, Sheryl. Is it truly true? My son lost to that boy? To a beginner who can only use 2nd-circle rune magic?”

“It is true that the boy used 2nd-circle magic. However, the nature of the duel was unlike a typical battle between mages.”

“Explain in detail.”

Sheryl recounted everything she had witnessed.

How Reagan engraved a rune onto a branch and cut through Arno’s magic.

And how he advanced through the rampaging spells and subdued him directly.

“…A mere branch?”

Stern looked bewildered.

A mage engaging in close combat was already absurd—but cutting magic with a branch made him laugh in disbelief.

Even Stern, a 7th-circle mage, had never heard of such a thing.

But Sheryl’s expression was utterly serious. She had no reason to lie.

After a moment of thought, Stern asked:

“Sheryl. Having witnessed the duel yourself—how would you evaluate Reagan’s fighting style?”

“It was deceitful and underhanded—luring the opponent into complacency and striking their blind spots.”

“…I should rephrase. I am not asking for the house’s stance. I am asking for your personal opinion.”

At that, Sheryl fell silent for a moment before answering:

“…It was highly efficient. And while Young Master Arno let his guard down, it cannot be denied that the boy himself is exceptional.”

“Exceptional?”

“It was a technique born from innate combat instinct, supported by calm and precise judgment.”

Sheryl was not just a maid—she was a dark mage dispatched from the guild.

She understood better than anyone how practical and efficient Reagan’s fighting style had been.

“High praise indeed.”

After hearing everything, Stern set down his teacup.

“Where is Arno?”

“The family physician is treating him.”

“Is he badly injured?”

“No, just some bruises.”

“So he even held back. The name of Benheim weeps.”

Stern let out a dry laugh.

It wasn’t simply humiliation over his son’s defeat.

“Reagan… that boy defeated my son. How interesting.”

Rather, it was the growing intrigue he felt toward the boy.

“…Yes. That level of talent is to be expected of someone chosen by our family’s archmage. Fascinating. Truly fascinating.”

Stern was genuinely impressed.

A newcomer who had been in the family for barely two weeks had defeated a direct heir raised with every possible resource.

Even if his methods weren’t those of a traditional mage, the victory itself deserved praise.

As Stern fell into thought, Allet stepped forward cautiously.

“My lord, there is something I must report. Even if it was a fair duel, the heir’s defeat is no small matter. If word of this spreads outside, it may damage the family’s reputation.”

“Allet, you worry too much. My son’s defeat is an undeniable fact. As long as it is not slander, Benheim has nothing to be ashamed of.”

“But…”

“Rather, it proves that Benheim has acquired an outstanding talent. Is that not something to celebrate? As for Arno, there is no need for concern. As one of Benheim’s bloodline, he will use this defeat as fuel to grow.”

Stern held his son in high regard.

Arno was already an excellent mage, and his passion for magic would not fade easily.

As head of the house, Stern’s role was not to blame his defeated son—but to reward the talented mage who had defeated him.

Of course, he still had some doubts about Reagan.

The boy carried many secrets—depths even Stern could not fully grasp.

‘Is it truly safe to bring such a person into the heart of the family?’

But his talent…

It was too valuable to ignore.

Above all, he was chosen by Benheim’s great archmage.

Having made his decision, Stern stood up.

“Sheryl.”

“Yes.”