Regressing as the Reincarnated Bastard of the Sword Clan

Sssssss…

A peculiar sensation crept over Theo's body. Starting from his toes, it crawled slowly upwards, like the prickling of thousands of insects climbing over him. It was an unnerving, skin-crawling feeling. His body refused to move, and just as the terrifying sensation began to consume his vision, something even stranger occurred.

Suddenly, Theo's soul was being dragged deep into an unknown void.
No amount of willpower could resist it.
He was simply pulled along, forced to gaze upon scenes he had no desire to see.

The scenery changed rapidly.

Blizzards roared, and the piercing cold winds seemed sharp enough to slice skin. The environment was a barren wasteland, relentlessly battered by the harsh elements. The snowstorm was so fierce that anyone caught within it would be entirely engulfed.

Through the blinding snowstorm, a lone figure appeared.

The man stood against the backdrop of a small cabin, tirelessly swinging his sword amidst the snow. The sheer heat of his movements melted the snow around him, exposing the ground beneath his feet. His hands were torn and bleeding, yet he displayed no sign of pain, silently continuing his relentless training.

Theo watched the scene, entranced.

There was no need to ponder who the man was.
Even though the man’s face was obscured by a mosaic-like blur, the identity of the figure was unmistakable.

“So, these are your memories now.”

It was a glimpse into the mortal life of the Nameless Sovereign.
These memories had surfaced as Theo’s soul continued to merge with his.

Theo found it astonishing that such vivid memories still lingered in someone who had lived for countless eons.

The Nameless Sovereign had not relied solely on his natural talent. He was a prodigy who combined his innate gifts with relentless, unyielding effort. His journey was one of carnage and strife, driven solely by the desire to grow stronger.

Watching this, Theo felt a strange kinship. The Nameless Sovereign’s path of cutting down countless strong opponents and monopolizing fortuitous opportunities mirrored his own in many ways.

It took less than ten years for the Nameless Sovereign to rise beyond the strongest of his era, earning the title of the greatest swordsman of all time. Yet, as he stood before throngs of cheering admirers, raising his sword to acknowledge their applause, his expression betrayed no sense of accomplishment.

The colors of what should have been the brightest moment in his life were muted, like an old, faded videotape.

It was as if the past had long since lost its meaning to him.

Despite reaching the pinnacle, the Nameless Sovereign found no satisfaction. His desolate life eventually changed, however—he found a new goal.