With a scraping sound, I sawed at the meat on my plate.

Ugh, it won’t cut. Why is the meat that nobles eat always so thick? Couldn’t they serve it already sliced?

Fine, I’ll just put in a little more effort.

I never thought I’d believe in reincarnation, but even at the age of ten, the memories of Blythe hadn’t faded into some dreamlike haze.

“Eremi.”

My father’s authoritative voice called out, reproaching me as I wrestled with the meat on my plate.

“Ease up a little. A member of the royal family should not make such noises during a meal. What, are you trying to cut through the plate?”

“...I apologize, Father.”

You can’t cut a plate with a knife, Father.

I understand what he means, but I can’t quite get the hang of controlling my strength. It’s likely because of the memories from my previous life. My brain seems to instinctively push my body to its physical limits. This meat has had its bones and even its sinews removed, and yet I still can’t figure out the right amount of force to use. Too little strength and it doesn’t cut; too much, and... well, here we are.

“Like this~.”

My mother, who had gone out of her way to stand behind me, placed her hands over mine and smoothly guided the knife through the meat. The cut was clean, noiseless, and perfect.

The juices from the sliced meat mixed beautifully with the mushroom sauce on the plate.

“Thank you, Mother.”

“You’re very welcome.”

Unlike my cheerful, beaming mother, who waved her hands at me with delight, my eldest brother, Leonel, wiped his mouth with his napkin and frowned.

“Honestly. You’re like a stray dog, no matter how old you get. I find it hard to believe you’re my blood brother.”

“Now, now, Leon. The fact that Eremi no longer eats with his hands is a big step forward... ha!”

My second brother, Arland, laughed as he chimed in, and the two of them started mocking me together.

— I’ll wipe that smug look off your faces with a good punch, you little brats!

Leonel is eighteen, Arland sixteen, and I’m just ten. For two future king candidates to stoop to taking cheap shots at a kid... well, it doesn’t bode well for the future of this kingdom. In my previous life, they were just little beans, cute and harmless.

I can’t very well slit their throats with a knife, so I considered giving them a sharp, loud tongue-click when my father sighed and scolded the two of them.

“Enough. This is hardly something to criticize him over. Even the Sword Saint Blythe was like that. No, in his case, he went so far as to cut through the plate. His appetite and vigor were truly something to behold.”

“...”

Give me a break, Kilpus! What kind of father shares such embarrassing stories from his child’s previous life? My face was practically on fire.

King Kilpus Oldingham.

In my past life, when I—Blythe—was rampaging across battlefields, he had just ascended the throne and was a timid young king. Now, he’s grown into a fine, bearded monarch.

Stern, earnest, and straightforward, he’s not one of those obnoxiously snide nobles. And somehow, in this life, he’s my father.

Arland smirked as he opened his mouth.

“Sword Saint Blythe or not, he was still a commoner without even a noble title. He should have learned manners alongside swordsmanship.”

This time, Kilpus frowned.

“To speak ill of the dead, especially a hero who saved our nation, is unbecoming, Arland.”

“Haha, my apologies.”

Watching my brothers reminds me of the knights of my past life.

Polished, rigid, utterly devoid of humor. Their one pastime seemed to be looking down on others. Back then, such types were rarely more than low-ranking knights. But now? Even members of the royal family are like this. It’s pathetic.

All that effort to save the kingdom, Kilpus, and this is what we’re left with?

“That’s right, you shouldn’t say things like that,” my mother chimed in.

She placed her hands on her narrow waist, her lips pursed in a pout.

Queen Alina Oldingham.

I had known her face in my past life, but as her child, I came to know her warm and gentle nature. She has a soft, soothing aura that makes everyone around her smile. It’s hard to imagine anyone harboring ill will toward her.

Perhaps that’s why my brothers seemed so sheepish under her scolding gaze.

She was apparently the second daughter of a regional lord, but Kilpus found himself an excellent match. A rigid man like him needs a light-hearted and carefree woman like her.

“Let’s all eat nicely together, okay?”

Kilpus nodded.

“Indeed. Family must support one another, not quarrel.”

She’s a kind mother.

But. Yes, but.

For me, in this life, my mother is the most troublesome person of all.

She dotes on me excessively.

I had planned to retrace the endless path of swordsmanship as I had in my past life, but Mother Alina fiercely opposed the idea.

Honestly, it surprised me. She was someone who usually indulged my whims.

Officially, her reasoning was that a royal had no need to wield a sword. Fair enough; even Kilpus would say the same.

But for Alina, the real reason was different.

She loved her child too much to let me engage in something as dangerous as swordsmanship. She even insisted on accompanying me when I practiced horseback riding—a royal pastime—and would hide behind trees with a handkerchief in her mouth, watching me anxiously.

Despite her opposition, I managed to convince her to invite a master of refined noble swordsmanship to the royal palace. But, as expected, this “training” was nothing more than playful drills under her influence.

Frankly, there was nothing for me to learn from this so-called master. Of course not—I’m the reincarnation of the Sword Saint, even if I’m ten years old. So all I could do was maintain the facade of a cheerful, innocent child and play along.

Please, just spare me. Even my smiles are starting to cramp.