Watching the familiar face of the body beneath his feet, Wild Horse was carried back to his memories of six years ago. Back then, he had had two arms and the rear half of his tongue, but he didn't mind the disfigurement at all. Words became redundant when he was able to express everything through a saber or a sword.

He believed that he was born to be a killer. Unlike the many other people who had been taken away from their family when they were still young, he retained some of his childhood memories. He remembered the boundless snowy ground, his grim-faced parents, and his joyous playmates. And even more vividly, he remembered the scenes of them being killed.

Back then, he had only been five or six years old, but even then he had felt nothing when he had seen his parents be killed. He had merely been surprised that it was so easy to kill people. It had taken those people in black just a single saber slash to kill someone. Their movements had been neat and clean, and it seemed like ki