"Come out, you damn witch!" A man yells as he raises his pitchfork in one hand and a torch in the other. Flames dance wildly, casting eerie shadows on the angry faces of the mob.

  "You monster! Give back my child!" A woman, holding an infant's corpse, screams with tears streaming down her face, mixing with dirt and anguish.

  "Sorcerer! Come out and receive your punishment! Die here to repent for the many souls you've extinguished!" A priest yells, holding a sword dipped in holy water. His voice booms, echoing through the night.

  Outside of a small, rundown shack, crowds of men and women alike scream in anguish. They brandish pitchforks, torches, and swords, all demanding revenge, death, and despair for the so-called "White Death." Their eyes are full of rage and hatred, a testament to the suffering they've endured. However...

  "Imbeciles..." An old man mutters weakly as he sits comfortably in his wooden chair, listening to the chaos outside. "They don't even know the difference. A sorcerer manipulates the very mana in the air. A witch casts curses on those who are unfortunate." The old man continues to mutter information as he turns another page of his diary, his hands shaking slightly.

  His eyes scan each page as if reading a work of fiction—a book about someone else's life. Yet, these words he reads are his own, written by his younger self who looked toward the future with determined eyes. The pages are worn and yellowed, each word a testament to the passage of time.

  The old man cackles, thinking about how he and this younger self are the same person. One is a murderer, and one is a fool. They both possess abilities that even fairies and dragons covet, yet they use them for nothing but justice and revenge. They never once used their powers to create a better world or a better life for themselves. Only disasters were born.

  Memories flood his mind the moment he reflects on his past actions. Memories of all the lives he took with his own hands in the name of revenge.

  The old man sighs deeply as he turns another page. Upon doing so, he weakly smiles, seeing the drawing of a young man who holds a sword high. The ink has faded, but the image is still clear in his mind.

  A sword that has united many races together in this racially discriminating world. A beacon of hope in the darkness that has pervaded the land for centuries.

  A sword that has slain countless demons and monsters alike, its edge cutting through their vile forms, leaving behind a trail of blood and victory.

  A sword that has given this fool... hope.

  Yet, that sword with such a bright future was cut short. All because this fool fooled around and got the one he admired killed. His heart aches at the memory, a familiar pain that never seems to fade.

  But still, the story his best friend left behind is remembered to this day. A story of how a young knight died fighting three demon lords simultaneously, dying as he took them with him. It is an inspiring tragedy—a tragedy that has inspired many warriors to take up arms and fight the demon king.

  Such a heroic tale will undoubtedly continue to be told for hundreds of years. It will become a legend that many will look upon for inspiration, a shining example of courage and sacrifice in a world full of darkness.

  Memories of that moment flood his mind. The memories of that knight’s death. The moment his younger self fell to his knees and screamed in anguish. And a swear of vengeance to those that fooled him, to those he used to trust. The pain and anger he felt that day still lingers, a ghost that haunts his every step.

  A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

  Such... idiocy.

  The old man slams the diary shut and takes a deep breath, feeling the weight of his past heavy on his shoulders. He knows his time is almost up, yet he feels no fear. Is it because his body has already accepted the inevitable? Or is it because he realizes that he can finally rest? Rest in peace, away from this accursed world he so despises.

  It doesn't matter anymore. He will soon rest either way, and he'll finally be able to meet his best friend again. His heart clenches at the thought, eager for the reunion that awaits him.

  Will his friend accept what he has become? Or reject him for the cursed existence he has embraced? The old man wonders, his mind racing with possibilities.

  The old man couldn't care less. As long as he can catch a glimpse of his best friend's face, that will be all he needs. A sense of peace washes over him, a feeling he hasn't experienced in what feels like an eternity.

  A wisp of smoke enters his view as the mob outside burns down his shack. The heat creeps closer, yet the old man remains calm, accepting his fate with an air of resignation.

  His time has come.

  The old man smiles and says, "I'm coming home, old friend. If I could wish for something," he closes his eyes one last time, "I wish to guide you once more and help you fulfill your dream."

  The dream of becoming a Sword Saint.

  A saint whose mastery of the blade matches both the hero and the dark knight. A figure revered and feared, a symbol of power and skill.

  Then... all the old man can see is a bright light.

  The old man is finally at peace. All the worries that once persisted in his heart have all but left. Now, he can let his spirit flee to the afterlife, where all souls will be cleansed of their past, present, and future. Freed from the burdens they carried in life, they become one with the world beyond.

  That is, until everything turns dark again.

  Before the old man knows what's going on, memories begin to flood his mind—memories that don't belong to him at all. They surge through him like a tidal wave, overwhelming and unfamiliar.

  A demi-human? A slave? An orphan? Why is he experiencing these memories? The confusion grips his mind like a vice, making it hard for him to breathe.

  It's only seconds later when he begins to feel—the cold touch of the rocky ground he rests on, the stench in the air he breathes, and the sound of water droplets dripping from the ceiling to the ground. The reality of his new surroundings sinks in, filling him with a sense of bewilderment.

  Then, the old man's eyes open.

  He stares at the ceiling for a long while, trying to register everything that's happening. He sits up and looks down at his hands. These hands aren't his. They are too young, too unblemished by the years he's lived.

  He turns his head and looks toward a puddle that has formed in the corner of the strange cave he's in and gazes upon it.

  That's when he sees himself—a young boy with what seems like long ears on his head. He reaches one hand to touch one of them. The moment he does, it twitches.

  "W-what?" The young boy's face twists into a panicked gesture. "I-Is this some kind of jest? What in the Goddess's name is this!?" Then he feels a weird sensation. One that he is unfamiliar with. He turns his head and looks behind him. He then sees it, a fluffy tail swaying around similarly to an animal.

  “What is this sorcery!? Who in their small mind thinks this is a good idea!? No, wait, I remember divine beings can transfer souls to another being. Then who-” Then it comes to mind. The Goddess's goofy smile pops out of nowhere in his thoughts as she looks at him with pity. The, now, young boy realizes the cruel twist of fate she has bestowed upon him.

  The boy is silent for a long moment until he blurts out, "THAT DAMN BITCH!”