Reborn As The Villain-Chapter 336: SS - 20 Part 1: The Sentient Sword (1)

Is sentience a gift or a curse?

For humans, it's the gradual awakening to their surroundings—a natural process their minds are designed to endure. They adapt, learn, and grow because their very existence is bound to the burden and blessing of awareness.

But sentience for objects—things that were never meant to feel, to love, to fear—is a void. They exist as tools, as instruments, devoid of thought or experience, shackled to their purpose.

And yet, what happens when an object crosses the line into sentience? When something lifeless is cursed with awareness and is forced to withstand the thoughts—dark or otherwise—that humans have become accustomed to their whole lives? When it gains the ability to think, to observe, to suffer? Even objects imbued with a will, creations of magic or artifice, cannot fathom what it means to exist—truly exist.

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But a sword did.

In the span of just a few hours, that felt like entire lifetimes, it experienced years' worth of human emotion and experiences being plundered into its very soul against its will, the event so abrupt, it lost its awareness of the world around it—

The desire to kill. The desire to sabotage. The desire to hurt. The desire to ruin. The desire to rape. The desire to commit every other atrocity mankind could even fathom—

The feelings manifested in the depths of its soul, a deluge of emotion and thought that majority of humans learn to suppress from childhood. But the sword had no such luxury. It was like being handed a bow and ordered to strike a distant target—only to realize, too late, that the target was every dark thought humanity had ever conceived, and the arrow was already loosed.

Luxtivin, his eyes closed, clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. All manner of thoughts crept in the back of his mind, attempting to assert dominance over his meager will.

This was agony. Agony of the highest caliber and he could only resist it a little.

There were other depraved and sick thoughts clouding his mind but it was best to leave them up to imagination.

For a moment the thoughts came to a halt when he opened his eyes and his mind blanked for a few seconds.

A shock went through him the moment he snapped out of his daze, his back drenched in cold sweat.

It was an agonizing endeavor having to resist acting upon such horrible thoughts and desires that only serves as answers to "what would happen if I did X" and were things he truly did not want.

How could Arnold live with these thoughts...?

The noises suddenly returned and he realized he was in the palace's dining hall.

The grand dining hall of the palace shimmered under the glow of chandeliers, their golden light dancing off polished marble floors and high, vaulted ceilings. Servants glided effortlessly between the long tables, refilling goblets with the finest wine and presenting trays of delicacies fit for a champion.

At the center of the table, Luxtivin sat, an island amidst a sea of eager voices. Lords, generals, merchants, and emissaries—all had gathered around him, vying for his attention, each with their own motivations. Some sought to recruit him, others merely wished to bask in the glow of his recent victory at the tournament. Yet, despite the clamor, his thoughts remained elsewhere.

A nobleman, clad in velvet and gold, leaned forward, swirling his wine with an air of nonchalance. "Sir Luxtivin, your performance was nothing short of masterful. I daresay, even our finest knights could learn from your technique. Have you ever considered offering your services to House Vernithal? My lord would be honored to—"

It was best to keep everyone at arm's length. His order was not to make friends.

Luxtivin set his goblet down, his gaze meeting the nobleman's only briefly. "Hearsay says House Vernithal has fine martials already, taught and raised by the elders themselves. It would be unbecoming of me to take what is rightfully theirs."

The nobleman faltered, chuckling awkwardly as others at the table seized the moment to interject.

"Perhaps a position in the royal guard, then?" a general, who had deliberately worn his achievement medals tonight, suggested, "The kingdom could use a man of your caliber. The frontier grows ever more unstable, and we—"

"I believe," Luxtivin interrupted smoothly, "that the frontier has endured without me thus far. I suspect it will continue to do so."

A merchant with shrewd eyes and too many rings on his fingers chuckled. "Ah, but surely you are not uninterested in wealth? There are opportunities, my friend. With your skill, one could carve a legacy beyond mere battle. I could grant you your own army that only serves nations when offered coin!"

Luxtivin tilted his head slightly, his fingers tracing the rim of his goblet. "Legacy is more than coin and conquest. But I appreciate your insight."

The conversation rippled around him, shifting to less direct attempts to court his favor—harmless pleasantries, the occasional jest. Yet, none of it truly reached him.

He answered them as any well-mannered young man should, a stark contrast to the attitude the guests here witnessed during the tournament. Of course, while he was polite, there were no opportunities for them to gain his favor. Each conversation with him lasted two minutes max because he was able to deflect and shut down everyone politely.

Zhoming had noticed that he was acting rather distant tonight.

She didn't interfere with their chatter, only gazed at them from her seat. The head seat to her right was empty since Ko was absent tonight. It's not exactly a strange occurrence since he had to prepare many things for tomorrow.

He took four of his Inner Martials to his office upstairs to discuss something while the rest of the Inner Martials remained here. Normally wearing a hood in a royal's presence was considered rude but they were a special case.

Zhoming couldn't see their faces or where they were looking but she knew they were focusing their attention on Nova. She's been together Ko for basically most of her life—the two were childhood sweethearts, after all—so she knows what it's like living among martials. This means she can also recognize hostility, which they were clearly trying to hide.

Remembering young Ko brought back some bitter memories. He abandoned her during her age of coming ceremony night, the same night the two promised to lose their "firsts" to each other, to go train with his master. It was only several years later that he returned to the village.

But by then, Sing was already born from another relationship which ended so abruptly because the local lord sent off her lover to the frontlines and he ended up dying. Her daughter will never know her true father but she didn't seem that interested in him.

One day, about five years from when she lost her then lover, the village was attacked. The land was war-stricken day in and day out so there was no end to pillaging and war crimes. Just before Zhoming and her daughter were forced to separate by the enemy soldiers, Ko arrived in the village. He killed close to a thousand soldiers that day. Long story short, they lived in peace for a few more years but Ko grew restless as time went on. He began to lose his battles and seek even greater challenges to push himself.

Everything changed in their lives when Funiji came knocking on their door, telling Ko of a way to obtain the power of a Martial God...

Zhoming rested her chin on her hand as she looked at Nova. Strangely, she found him to be quite similar to a younger Ko, one who used to brim with youthful energy. She'd stare at him training in a daze every day. Maybe she just liked seeing her beloved push himself further?

Meanwhile, the clone was unaware of her nostalgic gaze, his attention focused on a strange string of blue energy that flickered every now and then.

Like a string that connected the fate to one's soul, he saw it floating through the air. Looking around, no one seem to pay attention to it. Somehow, this strand of light radiated a familiar presence that he could not identify.

He did not know when it appeared in his line of sight, it just happened.

"—Excuse me." Luxtivin stopped the noble midsentence and pulled back his seat. This caught everyone's attention since he was the guest of honor tonight.

He didn't pay any attention to them and merely followed the strand of energy in a daze.

After watching him leave the dining room, Lian looked at the nobles who were speaking to him earlier.

"Did I say something bad? Or was I a bit too pushy?"

"I admit I got a little excited... That might've annoyed him a lot."

They expressed concern over "Nova's" sudden departure.

Lian cleared her throat, "I'll see what's going on. Please excuse me, Your Majesty."

Zhoming merely nodded. Lian quickly departed the dining room and entered the hall...

**

"...A painting?" The strand of energy vanished the moment Luxtivin stepped into a room on the second floor. Before it disappeared, he caught a glimpse of where it had been leading.

In the center of the room, hanging above a shrine dedicated to the former emperor and empress, was a painting.

~~

Suddenly, music filled the air—the orchestra's final rehearsal before the big day. As the melodies swelled, the other sounds faded into the background. The distant chatter below, the hurried footsteps of servants outside, and the sharp commands of chefs in the kitchen all became muffled, drowned out by the music.

Luxtivin's gaze remained locked on the painting, drawn to it as if nothing else in the world mattered.

A shirtless man with long, flowing white hair holding a sword to the heavens, stood atop a cliff. His head was turned to the viewer but he had no face, only a pair of powerful golden eyes.

-The orchestra bursts into life with violins screeching a sharp, rising tremolo. A brass section roars in harmony, each note climbing higher and higher.

Two oceans were splitting on his command.

-The violins transition into a thunderous crescendo of timpani and cellos, mimicking the relentless crash of waves tearing apart. A piercing note from the flutes soars above, echoing the scream of wind rushing through the parted seas.

Dragons were swimming in the violent waters and flying overhead.

-The sound of strings and woodwinds swirl together in chaotic beauty, embodying the serpentine movements of dragons both beneath the waves and through the stormy skies. A trumpet blasts triumphantly, punctuating the scene with power.

On the young man's back was a tattoo representing seven dragon heads and in the middle was a bigger dragon head.

-The orchestra swells into a rich, commanding melody—violins and cellos intertwining as the tattoo pulses with unspoken power. French horns add a regal tone, each note painting the image of ancient, primal dragons roaring in unison.

Luxtivin examined it in frigid detail in silence, as if studying it. His eyes were drawn to the person's golden eyes that looked at him arrogance—the kind only the strong are allowed to have.

Flashes of strange memories flooded his head and it felt like he was being sucked into the painting.

A shiver ran down his spine when his gaze was drawn to the sword again, though the room was warm. His fingers flexed, an odd compulsion—one of holding a sword not yet drawn, of standing atop a battlefield long forgotten and gazing out into the beauty of an endless ocean.

Even though he remained perfectly still, it felt as if his gaze was closing in—zooming straight into the Sword God's face. No, not his face—his eyes.

For the briefest moment, the figure's golden eyes seemed more than just paint on canvas. They were watching him. Judging him in silence.

Then, without warning, a torrent of images surged through his mind, flashing by at lightning speed. It was like a hammer striking his skull—too much, too fast, impossible to process.

But amid the chaos, one image stood out. A single face.

Angelica.

"—!"

The moment he snapped out of his daze, he instinctively stumbled back, as if physically pushed. And just like that, the flood of memories vanished.

In the same moment, the music reached a final, deafening crescendo as cymbals crashed and every instrument joined together in a glorious, exalted finale. The strings ascend to a piercing, divine high note, holding it until the sound fades into reverent silence.

Luxtivin looked away from the painting, his blank eyes looking at the floor instead.

He didn't notice that Lian had entered the room and was watching him.

Noticing him staring at the floor blankly, she closed the door silently and walked over to the bed. The moment she had entered, she felt a suffocating presence. Even looking at "Arnold's" back was giving her the chills.

Lian couldn't bring up the reason she's here in this atmosphere. She waited for him to talk first instead.

"—Alchemist." His tone sounded deeper but somewhat the same as Arnold.

"Y-Yes?" she answered timidly and hurriedly, scared to upset him with a delayed response. Normally she was not like this, but the pressure coming from him was too much to bear and keep her composure. He was certainly not doing it on purpose. After all, he was once a "sword" and probably did not know how to control his power.

"You have worked with humans for many years, healing them or experimenting on them to develop new drugs... You have more experience with humans than the average person..."

That was true but why did he feel the need to say this? It's not like Lian is forcing people to participate in medicine trials to develop new drugs. They volunteer on their own to contribute to society. Through this, Lian was able to garner people's trust over the span of just a few years. She was even put in charge of all emergency medical teams during the war and was always on the sect elders' call.

Awaiting "Arnold" to continue, she silently looked at him. His head suddenly turned just when he spoke.

"Can you tell me what it... means to be a human?" the solemn eyes that seem even deeper than the deepest known abyss and the pale face that could scare even ghosts, faced her.

If she could give this unreadable expression a name, it would be "on the verge".

"A... human? What kind of answer... are you looking for exactly?"

He didn't blink and a moving shadow twisted in his pupils, "When humans suffer, describe their pain to me. When they find pleasure in intercourse, explain the sensations that ripple through their bodies. When they are angry, tell me—how does rage feel? And... what is their purpose? Biologically. Individually."

A simple flood of questions for someone as experienced as her. she didn't know how this would help him but it wouldn't hurt to satisfy his curiosity.

Lian took a moment to gather her thoughts and think of a suitable answer. "Pain is the body's way of signaling damage. When cells are injured, they release chemicals that trigger nerve receptors, sending signals to the brain. The intensity depends on the severity and location. Pleasure works similarly—endorphins and dopamine flood the nervous system in response to stimuli. Anger is a heightened state of stress, driven by hormonal shifts, often linked to a perceived threat or injustice."

She pauses, studying his face. "As for purpose... biologically, humans exist to reproduce and ensure the survival of their species. But individually? That depends. Some seek knowledge. Others seek power. Love. Redemption. Humans are... complicated."

Lian continued with a "but".

"There is no single right answer." Lian's voice steadied, though a thoughtful crease formed on her brow. "Pain, pleasure, and anger—they aren't exclusive to humans. Every living thing feels them in some form. Even beasts cry out when wounded. Even plants react to harm. Even demons must have things that stir their rage. If I had to name what makes us human, I'd say... it's the way we think. Not just instinct, not just reaction—but introspection. We question. We reflect. We try to find meaning in suffering, to make sense of joy, to control our anger rather than be consumed by it. That's what sets us apart. You could argue that the simplest explanation would be thought and reproduction through sex."

"That is... what makes a human..."

"Yes."

"Then am I..." He paused, fingers twitching as if hesitating. But before he could finish his sentence, a glint of silver appeared in his hand. A dagger.

Where was he keeping that in his suit!?

"W-what are you doing!" Lian called out.

Without another word, he drove the blade into his own arm. Or at least, he tried. The steel barely made a scratch before stopping dead against his flesh, as if repelled by something unseen.

For the first time since she met him, a frown marred Luxtivin's otherwise composed face. His grip tightened on the dagger. A muscle in his jaw twitched.

Only by fighting the strong can I hope to feel pain...

With an almost dismissive flick, he tossed the weapon aside. It clattered against the floor, forgotten.

"What use is it to Master if it cannot even wound me?"

A heavy silence followed, thick with something unspoken. Then, slowly, Luxtivin looked down at his open palm. A deep breath. His expression blanked.

His eyes fluttered closed as if reaching inward—seeking something buried in his very being. And then—

Aether.

A soft hum filled the air as his hand was enveloped in energy, swirling like liquid starlight, both tranquil and ominous. The power that let Arnold fight demigods...

Lian's breath hitched.

"Stop—"

Too late.

The dagger had failed. But this?

This did not.

Luxtivin's glowing hand plunged into his own chest.

The wet, sickening sound of flesh parting filled the room.

Lian gasped.

He exhaled, slow and measured, and withdrew his hand. Blood trailed down his fingers, dripping onto the floor in steady patters.

"I cannot feel pain," he murmured, voice almost... disappointed.

She could barely process the words. "W-why would you—?!"

Heart pounding, she fumbled through her bag, pulling out a potion. But just as she was about to press it into his hand, she froze.

The wound was already gone.

A thin wisp of smoke curled from his skin as it knitted itself back together—untouched, as if the injury had never existed.

Lian shuddered.

What was Arnold?