Volume 1: King's Blood
1627 — Earth, Battle of Argenmoor Ridge
The clang of steel rang like thunder. Bodies clashed, bled, and fell on a field soaked with rain and war. Smoke billowed. Screams echoed. Arrows cut through the air like flocks of blackbirds fleeing death.
Among it all, he stood.
The man known as the Blade Emperor, the Sword King, the last living master of the Ten Forbidden Styles. His silver armor, cracked and caked in blood, glinted under storm-lit skies. His blade, Heartsunder, shattered in half—yet still carved clean through men, magic, and monsters.
He had no more comrades left. No more banners to protect. Only death awaited him. And he welcomed it.
"Come, if you dare!" he roared, voice drowning the storm.
A hundred enemies charged.
He smiled.
And then—
Darkness. Silence. A soft breath.
---
Somewhere far, far away…
When he opened his eyes again, it wasn't to the crash of steel or the pain of wounds.
It was hunger. Cold. A choking smell of waste and rot.
He lay in mud. His limbs were small. His bones ached in strange ways. His sword calluses were gone. His fingers trembled not from fatigue—but youth.
"What… the hell?" he croaked, but the voice that came out was far too high. Too soft. Too young.
He blinked. The ceiling above him was cracked wood and mold. The walls were makeshift stone, patched with rotting cloth and straw. He tried to stand, only to stumble and crash into a puddle of his own filth.
Then—memories. Not his own. A wave of lives and moments poured into his mind like an unstoppable tide.
> Jorik Vaelgard. Age: 8. Half-human, half-elf. Bastard son of Malric Sythros of House Sythros.
> Trained since infancy in assassination. Nickname: The Phantom Spider.
> Lived in the shadows. Killed men at six. Poisoned a duke at seven. Fled his handlers three months ago and has been living in the slums ever since, sick and starving.
The former Sword King clutched his skull and screamed—but the scream was silent. As if the world itself didn't care.
And then… he laughed.
A sharp, broken, unhinged laugh from a boy too beautiful, too frail, too damned to be anything but cursed.
"So… I've been reborn into a child assassin's body? A bastard elf raised to kill?" he whispered, a grin twitching on his dirt-smeared face. "Well, damn. Isn't that poetic?"
He dragged himself to his feet, naked except for a tattered tunic, and stumbled to a shattered mirror leaning in the corner.
A reflection stared back—one that didn't belong to the man he was, but one he'd now claim.
Long silver-white hair matted with grime. Pointed ears. Bright violet eyes glowing faintly in the dark. Skin as pale as bone china. A face that could seduce angels—or slit their throats.
Jorik Vaelgard. The Phantom Spider. The Assassin Bastard of Sylveria.
He clenched his tiny fists.
"Not this time," he muttered. "No more wars. No more kings. No more blades."
A pause.
"…Okay, maybe one blade."
A glimmer flickered in the air beside him. Time slowed for half a second. A presence stirred within his soul.
> [SOUL GEAR AWAKENED.]
Name: Calamity Chronoblade: Paradox Severer
"A blade not bound by time, law, or logic…"
His violet eyes widened. And then… he smiled again. This time, slowly. Darkly.
"A sword that breaks time itself, huh?" he whispered, gripping the hilt forming in his palm.
"Looks like I'm not done rewriting history just yet."