It was an extraordinarily strange sensation.

I first became aware of it long before I had even mastered language. Back when my larynx had yet to form proper vocal cords, I was already steeped in memories of a distant past. This, despite the fact that I had not yet lived a life of my own to remember.

I recalled it.
The sword, like a raging gale, sweeping across the battlefield.

Armor is unnecessary for a beast.
Only sharp fangs are required.

Forms are unnecessary for a beast.
Just cleave flesh and break bones.

Names are unnecessary for a beast.
Simply let your roar echo across the battlefield.

In my younger days, all the knights mocked my swordsmanship, which adhered to no established style.
"It is not human," they said. "It belongs to beasts who crawl the earth, drink muddy water, and feast on corpses."

They were correct. I was a beast that could understand words.

I belonged to no knightly order. Instead, I fought countless defensive battles leading a ragtag band of only a few comrades. We were called mercenaries and hunters.

I hadn’t gathered them. They came to me of their own accord, declaring me their master and following me as they pleased.

While the knights, who derided us as a pack of beasts, lost many lives in battle, not a single member of our group perished. We slew more enemy commanders than any other unit and returned alive from even the harshest of battlefields.

At first, the knights resented us, but over time, even their loose tongues fell silent.

Through repeated battles, I became feared by enemy nations as a demon of the sword and revered by my homeland as the Sword Saint.

Blythe the Sword Saint. Or Blythe the Hero. A lone beast roaring on the battlefield.
That was the name I bore in my memories.

However, the path of the sword has no end. As one who followed "formlessness," I achieved no ultimate mastery. Even after earning the title of Sword Saint, I simply continued to walk the endless road of the sword.

That said, I regret that my title involved me in domestic politics, leaving less time to wield my sword.

My life was, for the most part, one where blood and carnage raged ceaselessly. But even so, it was a life I enjoyed.

Yes, I enjoyed it.

...

And now, well... how should I put this?

It seems that Blythe, who must have perished somewhere, has miraculously been reincarnated.

The name I bear now, along with his memories, is Eremi Oldingham. A frail, ordinary child. Not one holding a greatsword in his right hand but a dinner knife, and in his left, not a long spear but a fork.

I can’t even manage to properly cut the meat on my plate, let alone people or monsters.

Hmm. I can’t cut it.