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Moden Bascon's chamber in the Bascon family manor was filled with the stuffed trophies of massive monsters. Each one exuded a palpable menace, instilling fear that made it hard to believe teenagers had hunted them down. The sight boldly proclaimed the prowess of this renowned warrior clan. The vast room, brimming with countless beasts, hung heavy with silence.
....
In the center of the room, Bin and Moden faced each other.
Moden's deep, resonant voice broke the stillness.
"Is it true that you slew the Erymanthian Boar, a 6th Class monster?"
Bin replied confidently to Moden's question.
"Yes, it is."
"Then the traces of sword wind are yours as well?"
"Indeed."
Bin's responses came crisp and clear, as if proclaiming unvarnished truth. Moden furrowed his brow, scrutinizing him. Bin's breathing was steadier than before, his pupils unwavering. It didn't seem like a lie.
Moden stroked his chin, deep in thought.
A child who can unleash sword wind at just ten years old... I never imagined it.
If this was true, it could upend the balance within the Bascon family….
Moments later, Moden burst into booming laughter.
"Hahaha!"
His hearty guffaw filled the room, rattling the windows. Fixing his gaze on Bin's right arm, Moden continued.
"Very well, one more question. Was that power entirely your own?"
Gulp.
Bin swallowed involuntarily. Moden's piercing eyes were no joke—he seemed to sense the forbidden magi at play. A single misstep could cost him his arm, given the immense authority of the Bascon family head.
Yet Bin met his gaze unflinchingly.
"Yes, I believe it was my power."
"...Your power, you say. How can you declare it so boldly?"
Under the mounting pressure, Bin extended his left hand toward Moden. Moden's eyes widened in shock.
"...!"
The hand was callused and scarred beyond belief, covered in countless scratches. It was impossible to imagine belonging to a ten-year-old. How many hours had he gripped a sword? The marks spoke of pain endured through sheer iron will.
Bin, still holding out his hand, spoke.
"I see it as divine recompense for my efforts thus far."
"...Divine recompense."
Moden stared at the hand, pondering the agony and despair Bin must have endured with his useless right arm—and the relentless effort to overcome it. Nodding at his son's triumph over such a grueling path, Moden said,
"Well done, my son."
Bin blinked in surprise at Moden's unexpected warmth.
"Pardon...?"
It felt surreal. In all his lives, he'd never once heard the word "son" from his father.
Before Bin could say more, Moden approached. Thud. Thud. His massive frame towered over Bin, more than twice his height, with a lion's mane beard and an aura of unchallenged dominance. It was no wonder he was called "the Beast."
In a grave tone, Moden asked,
"What kind of man do you intend to become in this Bascon family?"
The broad question undoubtedly tied to Bin's right arm. Amid the overwhelming presence, Bin recalled his past life.
Back then, his father had posed a similar query, eyes blazing like a tiger's, to the one-armed boy.
"What kind of man do you intend to become in this Bascon family?"
"...."
Bin had been ten then, too—an age brimming with wonder and curiosity. But his life was anything but. Tormented by his siblings, frustration and fear overshadowed any sense of adventure. Facing the beastly Moden, he could only tremble.
Bin couldn't even meet his father's eyes, like a fawn before a predator.
Wh-what kind of person I want to be...?
He had no room to dream of the family legacy. Born with one arm, enduring his siblings' bullying was his daily grind. Survival without torment was victory enough.
Forcing his mind to answer, Bin blurted the first thought that came.
"Uh... like Mother. Helping those in need... someone kind."
Peeking at Moden's reaction with innocent eyes, Bin watched as Moden pressed a hand to his forehead and sighed.
"Hoo...".
In any other family, perhaps. But this was Bascon—survival of the fittest. Such pious drivel held no value here.
Sensing something amiss, Bin glanced again, unease gnawing at him. Too late to take it back now.
Even Bin's pleading gaze couldn't soften Moden's grim expression.
"...."
Any ten-year-old could read that look: Pathetic.
The beast's silence crushed the fawn, who bowed his head.
"...."
Recalling that memory, Bin gritted his teeth. Whenever near his father, his body always betrayed him—frozen in fear before the 1st Class knight, one of Gana Continent's top predators.
But then, an image flashed: Moden Bascon's rival, Helden Grander. Revulsion at that vile smirk clenched Bin's fists.
If I can't scale this mountain called Father, I'll be a loser all over again.
He couldn't repeat his past life. Forcing his jaw open, Bin shouted at Moden.
"I can't say exactly... but I'll surpass you, Father! And with this power, I'll bring down the Grander family!"
"...!!"
Silence fell once more at Bin's bold vow. Even the mighty Moden Bascon gaped at a mere ten-year-old.
At first, he dismissed it as childish bluster. But Bin's eyes burned with unwavering resolve—dead serious. His face even looked relieved, as if unburdening a long-held secret.
Moden threw his head back and roared with laughter, shaking the walls.
"Hahaha! That's a fine glare I haven't seen in ages."
Turning, he pointed to his seat—a massive throne blending gold and black.
"Let's see if you're worthy of this chair."
Bin flashed a triumphant smile.
"Yes, my lord!"
* * *
Days later, inside Plentel Castle, in the manor housing Billy and Shirley.
Pale skin, hollowed cheeks—they looked gaunt after days in solitary confinement. Short-haired Shirley sat before a large mirror, scowling.
"Ugh, look at this mess. What a disaster...".
She fussed with her hair, complaining. But no amount of primping could fix the short crop.
Billy, beside her, muttered indifferently.
"Your hair's not the issue."
"Hey!!"
Shirley snapped back in her usual half-petulant, half-familiar tone—like any bickering siblings.
She glanced back at the mirror, then hung her head at her wretched state. Vanity aside, the future loomed darker: sneers and disdain from the castle folk and siblings alike.
"Bro, what now? How will everyone look at us?"
But Billy smirked.
"...."
Shirley frowned at his vacant grin, frustration boiling.
She grabbed his collar.
"Does losing to the runt not piss you off?! And we're supposed to be noble heirs! Say something!"
Unlike her fury, Billy stayed calm.
"No, I want payback more than anyone."
Shirley blinked.
"Then why so chill?"
"Think about it. The more the rumors spread, the more trouble he's in—not us. He's the one screwed."
Shirley tilted her head.
"Huh? What do you mean?"
Glancing around cautiously, Billy leaned in.
"We've got a solid ally. As if that punk could touch us."
Understanding dawned; Shirley clapped.
Clap!
"Right, big bro Willie!"
Willie Bascon. Fourth of the "seven siblings," firstborn of Moden's second wife, Keron. At seventeen—five years Billy's senior—he was already a 4th Class knight. Nicknamed the "Blue Wolf," unmatched in speed among the siblings.
Billy nodded.
"With this spreading everywhere, word'll reach Willie soon enough."
"Yeah, he's totally on our side."
Shirley finally grinned with glee.
"He'll crush the runt, then. But no killing—tell him to just lop off that right arm nice and clean."
"Exactly. We'll repay this humiliation tenfold and make him suffer for life."
* * *
Near the Royal Tomb in central Gana Continent.
Around the mountain-like tomb fluttered black flags emblazoned with a snarling white wolf head—symbol of the Bascon family's ferocity and might. A "4" in the lower right marked it as the 4th Knight Division under Bascon command, one of their seven elite orders.
In the forest heart, ten knights gripped iron maces, hammers, darts, bows—scanning all directions warily. Sweat beaded their brows amid the beasts' distant roars.
"Groooar!"
Countless red eyes gleamed in the shadows, rustling bushes closing in.
Crunch-crunch.
Suddenly, five Iron Bears—6th Class monsters—emerged, encircling the knights. Utterly surrounded.
Despair gripped them.
"Where'd so many come from...?"
"Is this the end...?"
"Groooaaargh!"
One knight collapsed at the roar, shattering their formation. The Iron Bears pounced on the gap.
"No...!"
Life hung by seconds.
A whirlwind erupted, a black shadow blurring past the beasts. One man, yet multiplying like phantoms—a lone wolf tearing through foes.
The gale halted. From it emerged a long-haired man in black uniform. He drew his claws; the Iron Bears shredded apart, blood fountaining.
Splurt!!
"...!"
The 4th Division gawked at his ghostly prowess, awestruck by the gulf in skill.
Relief washed over them with sighs.
"We're... alive...".
As they caught their breath, one knight recognized him and signaled. The division hastily knelt on one knee.
"4th Division, at your service, Young Master Willie!"
Soon after, as Willie packed, their eyes widened in dread—the feared scenario unfolding. His pampered younger siblings attacked? Inevitable.
"Heading back to Plentel Castle now, sir?"
Willie replied grimly.
"...Time to meet that gutsy little brother."
His claws gleamed sharper than ever today.