I Was a Slave.

When I was born, before I even turned three, my parents sold me to a slave trader.
I don’t hold any grudges.
...No, to be more precise, I don’t even remember their faces.
I was sold when I had just begun to speak, so how could I possibly remember them?

The only clear memory I have is of sucking on my fingers while following the slave trader around.

Young slaves sold quite well.
They were popular among sorcerers—something about selling well for human experiments?
Or was it that the greedy pigs at the temples had a preference for children?
Anyway, we sold pretty well.

I was sold to one of the sorcerers.
The slave trader muttered something about me being unlucky, but when I think about it, being sold to a sorcerer seemed better than ending up as a tool for some old men’s disgusting desires.

It’s been ten years since I became a sorcerer's slave.

Out of a hundred slaves, I was one of the three survivors—or should I say, one of the three remaining test subjects.
The sorcerer's experiments involved extracting cells from monsters and transplanting them into human bodies, aiming to enhance the human physique.
The children who couldn’t adapt or endure would either explode or turn into something neither human nor monster, only to be thrown into the incinerator.
I was physically weak at the time, but I had a strong will.

A will to survive.

That was my advantage.

Even though I was too young to truly understand what death was, I desperately wanted to live. I endured the experiments and began to produce the results the sorcerer wanted.
I showed adaptability to the genes of two monsters—a dog-man (In-Gyeon) and an ogre—and the sorcerer was delighted.

...And then, the sorcerer tried to dissect me.

Whack!

"...Huh?"

Crack!
Could a person’s head really burst that easily?

That was my first kill.

Slaves aren’t supposed to be able to kill their masters, but I realized then that the slave mark doesn’t activate if there’s no intent to attack. The sorcerer died simply because I reflexively flailed in self-defense and hit him without any real intent to harm.
It was a miracle—a combination of coincidence and luck.

...Or maybe it was the sorcerer's mistake as well?

After all, I had the genes of an ogre—a troll, to be precise.
It wasn’t the strength of a child that I possessed but the strength of a monster. What sorcerer in their right mind tries to dissect a child with monster genes, starting with a knife to their chest?
It’s no wonder sorcerers are often looked down upon as fools.

Anyway, with the sorcerer dead, I was automatically freed and prepared to escape the laboratory.

"Well, well, what do we have here? Something interesting?"
"...Ah."

Unfortunately, I didn’t manage to escape.
I should’ve been quicker, but it was the day a certain organization that funded the sorcerer’s research came to visit, and they caught me.

"Kid, you’ve got two choices: come with us or die right here."
"...I’ll come with you."
"Smart choice."

The organization that had been supporting the sorcerer?
They were none other than an assassination group called The Black Moon.

At the age of thirteen, I became an assassin.

_________________________________


 

The assassination group wanted powerful soldiers.
Soldiers who possessed monster abilities and exceptional assassination skills.
Apparently, it was all part of a plan to overthrow a kingdom.
Now that I think about it, it seems absurd that a bunch of assassins thought they could topple a kingdom.

Still, I was useful, so I survived. I was trained as an assassin and, for the first time, lived like a human.
Even though I endured inhuman things like being forced to ingest poison every day to build resistance and being tortured to increase my tolerance to pain,
having real meals and a proper place to sleep for the first time made me understand what it meant to live like a human being.
Because of that, I held no resentment toward the assassination group.

Five years—those were the years they invested in raising me into a professional assassin.

"Prepare for the mission."
"Understood."
"Numbers 9 and 10 will move with you. Number 8, you take care of them."
"...Got it."

At the time, my name was Number 8.
That meant there were seven others ranked above me, which made sense.
The assassination group wasn’t foolish enough to rely solely on one sorcerer to overthrow a kingdom, right?
There were quite a few people with strange physical or mystical abilities like mine in the organization.

For reference, Numbers 9 and 10 were survivors of the same experiments as me.
We didn’t get along at all.
Partly because the structure of the group didn’t allow for friendly relationships, but also because they resented the fact that someone younger than them held a higher rank.

...Such childish brats.

But maybe because they were so childish...

"Die, Number 8!"
"If only you weren’t here...!"

Numbers 9 and 10 attacked me, and I fought back to survive.
It was a fierce battle, but I gained the upper hand.
They should have realized...

"If you wanted a higher rank, you should have worked harder than me."

Thud!

"Urgh!"
"H-how could you...?"
"Why do you think I have a higher number than you? Let’s hope you get smarter in your next life."

Of course, the reason my number was higher was because I was clearly stronger than them.
They were fools for not understanding that.

"Phew, now what should I do about this?"

I had successfully killed them, but I didn’t feel any joy.
If anything, killing left me feeling empty and bitter. If I had felt joy, that would have been proof that I’d lost my mind.
But beyond the bitterness, I began to feel worried.
Those two were valuable assets raised by the organization, and now that I had killed them...
I was deeply concerned that the organization would try to kill me in return.

But fortunately...

"Huh?"

When I returned to the organization, it had been utterly destroyed.
Their plan to overthrow the kingdom had been exposed, and the kingdom’s army had launched an assault, wiping out the assassination group.

At first, I couldn’t believe it.
I knew how strong the organization was.
I checked every hideout I knew, but they had all been burned to the ground. The final confirmation came when I saw...

"...They really went out with a bang."

The trainers and leaders of the group had all been beheaded and hung from pikes.
That’s when I was sure.

The organization was finished.

At the age of eighteen, I was finally, truly free.

______________________

Two years later.

I moved to another country for a fresh start, determined to start my second life. But if there's one thing I've learned, it's that the world is unforgiving.
even more so than when I was in the organisation.
Is that the way of the world?

"Motherfucker."

I learned this vulgar curse early on, and life was hard enough that I ended up using it all the time.
From earning money to maintaining relationships to finding a job, it was all difficult.

I tried different jobs, but in the end all I really knew was how to use a sword.
So I chose the profession I was best suited for.

"Rookie, you're too slow."
"Yes, sir, I'm on it!"

I became a mercenary.

More precisely, I became the youngest member of a medium-sized mercenary group.

"Where did you come from, boy?"
"Just wandering around the back alleys."
"Really? You walk like an assassin."
"Me? An assassin? Haha, must be your imagination."

These guys were hot.

I thought mercenaries just lived from day to day, but they had sharp instincts and were quick to pick up on things.
That's probably why they survived as long as they did.
From then on, I worked hard to get rid of my assassin habits.
I changed the way I walked and dropped some of the habits I had picked up.

Of course, I kept the useful skills.
Any technique or habit that might come in handy one day, I kept.
After shedding my novice status and travelling through various battlefields, I lived off the sword as a mercenary for four years.

Whack!

"Urgh!"
"You bastards!!"

Damn this life.
Our client betrayed us, and the mercenary group was stoned to death in an ambush.
I took a rock to the head and collapsed as my vision blurred.

I'll just play dead.

To be honest, it wasn't enough to kill me.
I mean, with this body of mine?
Do you think a few stones would kill me?

This is a losing battle.

Even if I went all out and revealed all my hidden skills, there was no way a small group could defeat a well-trained army.
Pretending to be dead and waiting for the right moment was the best plan.
I relied on my strong regeneration and sturdy body to withstand the rocks and kicks from the soldiers.
Don't ask me if it was right to let others die while I survived.
I'd endured enough strange looks every time I bent down to pick up a bar of soap, and the fact that I didn't kill them with my own hands showed a lot of restraint.

With that bit of self-justification and a pounding headache,
I suddenly remembered something.

I could really go for a Coke.

It wasn't a memory from this life - it was a memory from my past life.

At the age of 24 I realised I was a reincarnate.

Do I get any benefits for being reincarnated?

Unfortunately, after surviving for five hours and trying every method to summon a status window, nothing appeared.

"This is such bullshit."

If this is how it's going to be, I wish I hadn't remembered.

____________________

 

After the mercenary group was wiped out and I informed the Mercenary Union of the client's betrayal, they immediately set out to retaliate.
No matter how ruthless and money-driven mercenaries are, known as butchers who'll do anything for the right price, they always honour their contracts. Betraying a mercenary is the one rule you can't break, and if a client stabs them in the back, they'll never let it go.
This client thought he could save a little money by betraying us, but all he deserved was bloody revenge.

The Mercenary Union completely destroyed the client's estate, looting and seizing everything in sight.
In particular, the client's family was either sold into slavery or committed suicide.
I suppose they thought they couldn't bear a life of slavery.

I have to retire.

Perhaps it was because I had regained my memories of past lives, but I began to feel a growing discomfort at the cruel plundering and violence I had previously overlooked.
It was a small discomfort, something I could still handle, but I had a feeling that once this discomfort faded, I'd lose what little humanity I had left.

It must have been a residual sensitivity.

"I should just become a civil servant".

I decided to retire and started studying.
As long as I could read, it would be easy enough to become a soldier for some estate.
But after seeing what happened to the estates that were crushed by the Mercenary Union, I thought I might as well aim higher and try to become a soldier for the royal capital - somewhere I wouldn't have to worry about being destroyed.

"Better to be an official in the capital than in the countryside!"

I'm not discriminating against the countryside. I hope that's clear.

Anyway, I studied hard and did my best, and finally...!

"Wow, you're really something."
"Excuse me?"
"A man with your talent as a mere soldier? The others must be blind. You start with the knights tomorrow."
"What?"

I didn't want to be just a soldier. Instead, I became a knight - albeit a late one.

"Now that is something..."

Sir Ihan was born at the age of 27.