Birth of the Demonic Sword Chapter 1 - 01. Birth

Utter darkness. That marked his first realization upon awakening.

'Where am I?'

He attempted to shift his arms and legs, yet the sense of touch felt strangely off from his usual experience.

'Wait, can I even think?'

'I distinctly recall those gangsters shooting me in the chest. Is this a coma?'

He tried once more to twitch or open his eyes, but all he sensed was confinement, with nothing but darkness in sight.

'Looks like I'm still kicking. Can't even snag a swift end in this wretched life. At least it's nice and warm here.'

A steady warmth enveloped his form, rendering the space surprisingly comfortable.

'Once I snap out of this, my folks might ease up on me for a bit. Perhaps I can seize the moment to bolt from that prison of a home and head overseas—surely some cleaning gig awaits.'

He mulled over using this brush with death to escape the trap he dubbed his home. He imagined his parents' reactions when he announced dropping university for dishwashing duty.

'Dad won't fuss too much, but Mom will flip out completely. These days, reading's the only thing I can do at home without sparking a brawl. Might lose even that.'

From his earliest memories, he'd adored gaming, devouring books, and drowning in booze. Everything else struck him as dull, tanking his school life since high school. Thus, tensions at home escalated, with his parents preferring endless shouting over admitting university didn't suit him.

'A chunk of that mess is on me, no doubt. I've wasted most of my years boozed up or buried in novels. Pretty lousy as a son.'

Such reflections stirred regret within him. Had he known better back then, he'd have skipped alcohol as an outlet, possibly keeping family peace intact.

'Can't rewrite the past, though, and I lacked better ways to stay chill while faking it constantly.'

At age 14, he sensed something off about himself. Friends chased girls or flashy gear, obsessing over romance and status in crowds. He felt mere intrigue toward sex, never truly connecting with anyone. Human society? Just arbitrary rules to herd people together.

'Didn't men invent those rules? As a man, I ought to ditch them and live free.'

Time slipped by in his musings, unnoticed as his thoughts dragged far slower than normal.

'Bottom line, money runs the world. Got it? Do as you please. Lack it? You're just a cog, grinding for scraps till death.'

'What a miserable existence. Shackled by human laws to slave for worthless paper, valued only by those same chains. Real freedom demands hoarding enough of it. Worth living like this?'

His contemplations paused now and then for sleep or efforts to rouse his body.

Days dragged on like this.

'Perhaps a forever coma traps me here, awaiting true death to escape this void.'

The enveloping darkness began souring his spirits; only the bodily warmth preserved his sanity.

Then, amid the blackness, light pierced through, expanding steadily over time.

'At last, something shifts! I must head towa---'

Suddenly, a squeezing force propelled him from the tight confines toward the glow. The agonizingly slow squeeze built pressure he endured. Eventually, darkness yielded to blinding light that stung his eyes. Cheers and unfamiliar tongues filled his ears.

Once his vision adjusted, he beheld his surroundings: a plump middle-aged woman gazed at him anxiously, gently prodding his chest. Oddly, her palm spanned his whole frame.

'What the hel---'

Before finishing the thought, the woman flipped him sideways and gave his rear a soft smack.

For some odd reason, that gentle tap stung sharply.

'What the hell are you doing, lady?!?'

His mental shout emerged as a piercing wail.

That cry eased the room's tension; the plump woman handed the infant to a pale yet stunning woman reclining on a vintage bed.

'It's a boy, my lady, and quite the inquisitive one from how he eyes everything.'

Though the words baffled him, the baby-bodied youth instantly grasped his plight.

'Reborn? Not a coma?!?'

The cradling woman bared her breast to nurse him.

'Wai--!'

Before protesting—in thought or cry—warm liquid flooded his mouth, overwhelming him in the haze of his debut feeding.

'I shall call you Noah. Yes, Noah Balvan—a fine name.'

Noah gazed at his feeder through drooping lids. She boasted unbound raven tresses cascading down her back and icy azure eyes beneath slender brows.

'Mom's a beauty, no question. Noah must be her pick—solid choice.'

The room door swung open; a fortysomething man with cropped black hair and a severe visage strode straight to the bed woman.

'Lily, let me view the child.'

With that, he scooped Noah up and hoisted him skyward for a clear look. The plump woman and two bedside maids bowed their heads to him.

Lily swallowed her ire as Noah was yanked from her bosom.

'Hm, pale and scrawny, yet sharp wits glimmer there. Guard duty for the main family might elude him, but counselor could work. Fine work, Lily.'

He returned the babe to her, then headed out. Lily murmured:

'Rhys, he's your son—named Noah. Can't he aspire beyond mere guard?'

Pausing at the threshold, Rhys faced her casually:

'My blood flows in him, sure, but yours taints it too. A whore's spawn's fortunate to shield main family heirs.'

He exited, leaving teary-eyed Lily clutching Noah. She missed the infant's intense glare tracking his departing father.

'This family's no simple affair. I must master this world's tongue swiftly.'

With that resolve, he shut his eyes and drifted to sleep.