“The Count’s Son’s Rise”

Klos Klein, the eldest son of Count Soth Klein, lord of the borderlands. At the age of six, his father sent him to the military academy of the Kersman Empire. Since that day, Klos had never returned home. Twelve years later, news arrived—his father was dead. On his journey back for the funeral, tragedy struck. A swift assassin pierced his chest with a single strike. Before he could even react, consciousness left him completely. Klos Klein was dead. Weightlessness. Falling. That was the first thing Klos felt when his awareness began to return. His eyes would not open, his surroundings were unknown—but one thing was certain: he was falling. And the fall only accelerated, as though an invisible force was dragging him deeper into some bottomless abyss. The sensation of weightlessness filled him with fear and unease. His heart pounded violently, his body instinctively longing to understand what was happening. That primal urge forced his eyes open. “Haah... haah...” Klos gasped for air, like a man jolted awake from a nightmare. But when he saw what surrounded him—he realized the nightmare had only just begun. He stood amidst endless darkness. Vision was meaningless here; the unknown gnawed at him, making every breath quick and shallow, his heartbeat wild. Fortunately, he could feel something solid beneath his feet—ground, or something like it. That single, tangible sensation was enough to ease his panic slightly. He began to think. Wasn’t I already dead? Could this be... hell? Infinite darkness—it didn’t quite match what the holy texts described. … Accepting his death, Klos grew strangely calm. Then—an ethereal voice echoed from every direction. It was like the deep call of a distant horn—endless, resonant, filled with unimaginable power. The sound pierced through his being, reverberating in every nerve. A force surged inside him. Pain followed. The agony of his soul being torn apart. He screamed and fell, writhing in torment. Yet his consciousness did not fade. Is this the god of death? Has he come to take me to the real hell? The mysterious, maddening voice continued to echo. But slowly—impossibly—Klos began to adapt to it. The pain ebbed. He stood once more, carefully probing the darkness around him. Even in death—even as a soul—his habit of caution remained. Suddenly, a violent shock struck his mind. Countless streams of information flooded his consciousness, searing through his thoughts. It felt as if his skull were splitting open. He collapsed again, unable even to clutch his throbbing head. The torrent of information was too vast, too alien. In the end, he could only grasp fragments. Klos was dead. He now resided within the depths of his own soul—and within this space dwelled another presence, a being called Kzurl, an Old God. He was not entirely human. His body carried the blood of that Old God. His death had awakened that slumbering blood, and the divine essence had reformed his broken flesh, granting him life anew. But the message was clear: if Klos were to die again, not even the Old God’s blood could save him. Moreover, the bloodline itself was dangerous—its divine energy could backlash against mortal flesh, even cause death. Fortunately, there was a way to suppress that backlash—mana. Only by absorbing mana could one balance the Old God’s power. And Klos, as the bearer of that blood, could now sense mana. The torrent ceased. His thoughts cleared—but confusion filled the void it left. Soul’s depth... Old God... resurrection... mana. Those were words that belonged in the songs of bards, not the real world. He didn’t believe it. He didn’t want to believe it. Then he noticed—the voice had faded. Could it be... that the information had come from that voice? The whisper of an Old God? Could this really be my soul’s realm? Were the legends true? Klos stood up, determination kindling within him. If all of this was real, he would speak to this being—Kzurl. But just as he steadied himself, something stirred beneath his feet. Before he could move, a thick serpent-like force coiled up around his legs, tightening swiftly until it engulfed him completely. Panic surged. He thrashed wildly, roaring in despair—when suddenly, a blinding light shattered the darkness. He felt himself rising. Fast. Klos’s eyes snapped open. His ragged breathing echoed through the dim chamber. This time, there was no total darkness—only a faint, murky light. Alive! That was his first thought. He sat up instantly, checking his body. His first concern—the left side of his chest, where the assassin’s blade had pierced through. The light was too dim to see, so he relied on touch. His clothing was still torn—but beneath the hole, his skin was smooth. Perfectly smooth, like the skin of a newborn. No scars. No trace of a wound. Feeling the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, savoring the air in his lungs, Klos finally accepted it—he had been reborn. … He sat motionless, tears silently sliding down his cheeks. Only through such primal emotion could he express the overwhelming joy of being alive again. But reason soon returned. The flawless flesh over his heart confirmed that the message of Kzurl had been true. Though it defied everything he knew, the evidence was undeniable. The Old God’s blood within him had awakened. Which meant, soon, he might face its backlash. He needed to find mana—pure mana—as soon as possible. But he didn’t even know what mana was, let alone how to sense it. He decided to worry about that later. For now, there was something more urgent. Where am I? The thought sent his pulse racing. A man who had been assassinated should not be alive—let alone in an unfamiliar place. If he had awoken in the wilderness, that would have been easier to accept. And then—he heard voices. “Watson, you fool! You took the entire day just to buy the Bloodstone! Don’t you know a corpse rots if left too long?” “Apologies, Master Sorcerer.” “Guard the cellar entrance. Nothing passes through—not even a rat!” “Yes, Master Sorcerer.”