Reincarnation of Dragongod

The wooden sword feels heavy in my hands, almost unbearably so. I plant my feet and grip the hilt tightly, trying to steady myself. I raise it above my shoulder, mimicking the stance I've seen practiced countless times in this world.

My arms tremble.

The moment I swing, the blade veers off course, falling short of its intended arc. The weight pulls me forward, nearly throwing me off balance. I barely manage to hold my footing, but the sword clatters to the ground.

I stare at it, breathing heavily, frustration tightening my chest. How? How can I, a true blood of the Vandor family, fail at something so basic? My family—no, this body's family—is renowned for its mastery of the sword. My father is a captain in the Black Knight Order, an elite force known for its unmatched skill on the battlefield.

And yet here I am, struggling to even swing a piece of wood.

I reach down to pick up the sword, but my hand freezes mid-air. The mock battle. I'd almost forgotten.

Every year, the Vandor family holds a mock battle, a tradition meant to showcase the prowess of our lineage. It's not just an event for us, either—the vassal families tied to the Vandors participate, each sending their best to fight. For them, it's an opportunity to prove their loyalty and strength. For us, the true blood of Vandor, it's a test of honor.

This year, I'm expected to participate.

The thought makes my stomach churn. I've seen these battles before—clashes of skill, precision, and sheer strength. The Vandors fight with an elegance that borders on artistry, each strike calculated and deadly.

But I? I've never even held a sword until now. In my past life, my battles were fought on a keyboard, my victories measured in lines of code. The idea of stepping into that arena, of facing off against someone who's trained their entire life, feels like a death sentence.

But I can't run.

"If I can't swing the sword…" I mutter to myself, "then I'll make my body strong enough to do it."

The decision settles over me like a stone dropping into water. Swinging the sword isn't the problem—I am. This body is too weak, too untrained to handle the demands of combat. If I want to stand a chance in that mock battle, I'll have to start from the ground up.

The next morning, I begin my training.

I rise before the sun, the courtyard shrouded in the pale light of dawn. The wooden sword rests against the wall, untouched. Instead, I drop to the ground and press my palms into the dirt.

"One push-up," I say aloud, as if hearing the words will make them easier.

It doesn't. My arms give out almost immediately, and I collapse face-first into the ground.

I push myself back up, frustration burning in my chest. Again.

One evening, after finishing my routine, I collapse onto the ground, sweat soaking through my clothes. The sky above is painted with streaks of orange and pink, the setting sun casting long shadows across the courtyard.

I call out in my mind, summoning the status window that has become an odd comfort in this strange world.

----

[Status Window]

[Name]: Zenith Vandor

[Age]: 8

[Race]: Half-Human

[Title]: Scion of Vandor

[Strength]: F → E

[Mana]: FFF

[Vitality]: FF → F

[Agility]: F → E

[Intelligence]: A

[Unique Ability[: The Coder - SSS

[Compiled Spells]: 155

[Custom Functions]: 27

[Other Abilities]: None

I close the window, a faint smile tugging at the corners of my lips.

"It's not much," I whisper to myself, my voice barely audible over the sound of my own breathing. "But it's a start."