'I-Is this the same young master that I used to know? It looks like the young master…but he feels nothing like the young master I used to know.'
The butler stood at a respectable distance, his hands clasped behind his back, though his fingers twitched with impatience.
He studied the young master before him—Kyle Armstrong—who, for the first time in his miserable life, was actually sitting still.
Kyle's sharp golden eyes were fixed on the old man before him, listening intently as the village elder spoke in his aged, wavering voice.
It was a strange sight.
As far as the butler could recall, Young Master Kyle had always been an arrogant, insufferable brat.
A disgrace to the Armstrong name, born weak and lacking the noble elegance of his bloodline.
The boy had thrown tantrums, abused his status, and shamed his house so often that even his own family had largely abandoned him.
So why… why was he sitting so calmly now, listening with such intense focus?
The old man was rambling about the greatness of the Armstrong lineage—how the Armstrongs were once a force to be reckoned with, warriors whose swords shaped the fate of the kingdom.
Their name once commanded fear and respect, yet here sat the supposed heir, a fragile and crippled disgrace.
It was all boring talk, and yet, Kyle did not show any intention of showing boredom or even annoyance.
The butler had expected Kyle to get impatient within minutes. To interrupt the elder, scoff at his words, or perhaps lash out in frustration as he often did when reminded of his inferiority.
But it never happened.
Instead, Young Master Kyle leaned in, his expression unreadable, his fingers interlaced as if deep in thought.
With every tale of conquest, every battle recounted, his eyes seemed to gleam brighter. The butler watched with growing unease, waiting for the inevitable outburst.
And yet, it never came.
By the time the old man finished speaking, an uncomfortable silence settled over the small gathering.
The butler prepared to step in, to remind Kyle that this was a waste of time, to perhaps scold the old man for daring to prattle on for so long.
But then, something unthinkable happened.
Young Master Kyle stood up—his movements shaky but determined—and, in a slow, deliberate motion, bowed to the elder.
The butler's breath caught in his throat.
Kyle Armstrong—an arrogant, petulant fool who thought himself above all—was bowing to a mere village elder?
It was so absurd that the butler momentarily froze, unable to comprehend what he had just witnessed.
By the time he recovered, Kyle was already walking away, his weak body forcing him to move at a measured pace. The butler cursed under his breath and quickly hurried to catch up.
"Young Master, What… what should I do about the old man? Should -"
He called, barely masking his disbelief as he walked alongside Kyle. The butler made a gesture cutting his neck to show what he meant.
Kyle didn't even look at him. He merely waved a hand dismissively.
The butler almost stumbled.
"Don't… bother? You mean to leave him be?"
He repeated in shock.
Kyle's golden eyes flickered with amusement as he turned to glance at his attendant.
"Why? Did you think I would have him silenced?"
The butler stiffened.
Yes. That was exactly what he had expected.
The Kyle Armstrong he had known was a petty, insecure child who despised being reminded of his weakness.
The butler had seen it before—whenever anyone dared to compare him to his stronger relatives, Kyle would lash out.
If he could not surpass them, then he would destroy anything that reminded him of his inferiority.
Yet now, he had listened to a lecture about the greatness of his ancestors without a single complaint.
And now, he had let the old man live.
The butler wasn't sure what unsettled him more—the fact that Kyle had changed, or the fact that he couldn't tell why.
Before he could probe further, Kyle spoke again.
The butler froze mid-step.
Kyle nodded, eyes forward.
For a moment, the butler simply stared at his young master.
Kyle Armstrong had never practiced anything in his life. He had always thrown fits about his weak body, complained about his limitations, and sulked when compared to his siblings.
The idea of him actually putting in effort was… laughable.
The butler narrowed his eyes. Perhaps Kyle was planning something foolish, like swinging a sword wildly until he collapsed out of frustration.
Still, an order was an order.
"I… I will fetch one at once."
the butler said, but his mind was racing.
Where in the world was he supposed to find a sword dull enough that it wouldn't hurt his young master, but still sharp enough that it wouldn't insult his dignity?
The butler glanced at Kyle again. There was something different about him now. Something unsettling.
He had always thought of Kyle as a lost cause—a pathetic failure destined to fade into obscurity. But today, for the first time in his life, the butler saw something else in his young master's eyes.
Kyle watched as the butler rushed off, his worried expression betraying his thoughts. He let out a small sigh and rubbed his forehead.
'How the hell did I end up ?'
The moment he had awoken in this frail, pathetic body, he knew that he had been reborn into a joke of a man.
His arms were weak, his legs barely functioned, and his stamina was so nonexistent that walking too quickly made his chest ache.
He had fought the heavens themselves, only to be thrown into this broken shell.
It was almost funny. Almost.
Kyle clenched his fist, feeling the feebleness of his fingers, the complete lack of strength.
His once-mighty power—the overwhelming force that had made him feared in his past life—was nowhere to be found. He was starting from nothing.
But there was one thing the heavens had failed to take from him.
He had time to rebuild himself.
He had time to grow stronger.
He had time to climb back to where he belonged.
Kyle exhaled slowly, his lips curling into the smallest of smirks.
Let them underestimate him. Let them think he was still the same useless noble they had always known.
They would soon learn.
This world was just another battlefield.
And he had never lost a war.