A Psychopath Reborn as a Third-rate Villain

The translucent figure moved first.

There was no warning cry, no dramatic declaration. The residual will of the First Sword Saint simply stepped forward and cut.

The blade came down in a clean, vertical arc. Andras shifted his weight and angled his body just enough for the strike to pass by his shoulder. Even so, the pressure that followed was heavier than the sword itself. A sharp wave of condensed intent scraped across his skin, leaving a faint sting in its wake. The air in the chamber thinned for a fraction of a second.

Andras did not counter immediately.

He watched.

The figure’s stance was economical. No wasted motion. Every step adjusted the distance with precise control. The incomplete sword in its hand left faint trails of condensed mana as it cut through the still air. Even in this incomplete state, the residual will carried the weight of a lifetime spent on the edge of a blade.

Andras’s eyes tracked the rhythm of its movements.

Three exchanges later, he had seen enough.

He stepped in.

Mana gathered along his arm as he deflected the next cut with a controlled burst of force. The impact rattled through his bones. Sovereign Predator Physique absorbed the shock and redistributed it before it could disrupt his balance. He turned with the momentum and answered with a short, precise thrust aimed at the figure’s center.

The residual will twisted its body and let the attack pass through empty air. Its counter came from an unexpected angle—low, then rising sharply toward Andras’s throat.

Andras leaned back. The edge whispered past his collarbone close enough to leave a faint red line.

Close.

He adjusted.

Echo Resonance sharpened his perception of the figure’s movements. Not merely the physical form—the residual will was only partially real—but the flow of intent behind each action. Every shift in pressure, every change in the density of its mana, every subtle hesitation in its footwork became information.

The next exchange was faster.

Andras no longer tried to match the figure with pure swordsmanship. That was Lucian’s path, not his. He guided the fight instead. A feint to the left forced the residual will to commit its weight. The moment its balance settled, Andras stepped inside its guard and struck the incomplete wrist with a concentrated burst of mana. The projection staggered. For the first time, its form flickered, fragments of pale light scattering across the platform before fading.

It recovered almost immediately.

The pressure in the chamber increased. The residual will’s outline grew clearer, and the incomplete sword in its hand solidified by a fraction. When it moved again, the air itself seemed to shudder under the weight of its intent.

It had recognized him as a threat.

That was enough.

Andras exhaled slowly and lowered his stance again.

The second phase began without pause.

This time the residual will did not test him. It attacked with the clear intent to end the fight. A sequence of seven cuts came in rapid succession—high, mid, low, then a sudden thrust that forced Andras to abandon his footing and retreat three steps. The last cut carved a shallow line across the stone platform where he had been standing.

Andras’s expression did not change.

He had already begun mapping the pattern.

The First Sword Saint’s style favored control of rhythm over raw speed. It created openings by forcing the opponent into predictable responses. Once the opponent moved as expected, the killing blow followed with inevitability.

Andras stopped responding as expected.

On the next sequence, he stepped into a cut that should have forced him backward. Instead of retreating, he advanced through the edge of the attack, accepting a shallow but painful line across his upper arm in exchange for position. Blood welled quickly. His free hand snapped forward. Mana compressed into a dense point and struck the figure’s chest with focused force.

At the same time, he released Abyssal Earth Dominion.

Darkness and weighted force bloomed across the platform, dragging at the residual will’s movement and disrupting the clean lines of its footwork. Its pure sword path had not been prepared for a fighter who refused to remain within the boundaries of swordsmanship alone. The projection’s form destabilized under the sudden interference.

The residual will’s head turned sharply toward him.

For the first time, something like anger entered its presence—cold, ancient, and offended.

”...You.”

The voice was rough, distant, as though dragged from the bottom of a deep well. It was not fully formed, yet the intent behind it pressed against Andras’s mind with unmistakable clarity.

”This is a trial of the sword.”

Andras did not answer.

He pressed forward without hesitation.

Echo Resonance continued feeding him every fluctuation in the figure’s structure. Sovereign Predator Physique kept his body stable under the residual pressure. Abyssal Earth Dominion warped the footing beneath the projection, turning clean steps into slight hesitations. When the residual will tried to create distance, Andras closed it. When it tried to overwhelm him with pure swordsmanship, he absorbed the first exchanges and punished the openings created by his domain.

The residual will’s anger sharpened.

”You defile the path...”

The words broke apart as Andras drove another concentrated burst of mana through its center, timed precisely with a surge of his domain. The translucent figure shuddered violently. Its outline fractured, pieces of pale light scattering across the platform before fading into the still air of the chamber.

Silence returned.

Dust slowly settled. The only sound was Andras’s controlled breathing.

He stood in the center of the platform, posture steady. A thin line of blood ran down his arm where the earlier cut had landed.

His gaze shifted to the sword.

It remained exactly where it had been from the beginning—resting on the raised platform, dark blade quiet, hilt waiting.

Andras stepped forward.

He reached out and closed his hand around the hilt.

The reaction was immediate and violent.

A surge of crushing pressure exploded outward from the weapon. It was not simple rejection—it was punishment. The force slammed into Andras’s chest and arm like a physical blow, driving the air from his lungs. Pain lanced through his mana circuits as the sword’s will invaded the contact point and tried to forcibly eject him. His knees struck the stone hard. Blood sprayed from his mouth as the backlash tore through his internal energy.

The sword’s presence flared cold and absolute.

Unworthy.

The word was not spoken aloud, but it pressed into his mind with unmistakable clarity.

Andras’s fingers were ripped away from the hilt. He was thrown backward across the platform, rolling once before catching himself on one knee. His right arm hung partially numb, the mana pathways along it burning and sluggish. Blood dripped from his lip onto the ancient stone.

Andras lifted his head slowly.

He looked at the weapon through the lingering cold.

It had not merely refused him.

It had injured him for daring to touch it.