Z'ōelo

While biding his time on Planet Lokhil, the four-armed baby never felt a day of peace in his life.

The Shetavi were born capable to consume hard foods of all kinds and had a relatively strong constitution compared to most humanoid races.

That combined with their incredibly fast growth rate in early childhood had led to the current populace's society filled with battle.

As it was a viable means to shape their future Livelli into something suitable, it was instilled in the children of the newest generation to focus on one practice only.

This was to ensure that when their companion had matured, they would have the highest compatibility with a tool tailored to their individual needs.

However, this system was not without its flaws.

There were in fact many children that had received a companion unsuited for their respective choice.

For those unfortunate children, they were in a position of lesser straights compared to their lucky peers.

But that was life for the Shetavi.

Those of high leadership in the Shetavi were the strongest of their generation and that meant that it was filled solely with the lucky few who found a suitable companion.

The others could only study their companion and either pick a path that better suited the Livelli or the path that the Shetavi wanted for themselves.

It was a tough decision that meant more the weaker your family was; the less you could afford to lose, the higher you could soar.

For the firstborn son of the Chief of the Sword Clan this meant that he was forced to practice with a sword the moment he could carry one.

And while most would consider the safety of their child, it seemed as if the chief couldn't care less about his son.

The reason being was because the sword he made his son use was made of real metal.

Every time he would finish a lesson with his son, the boy would be covered in cuts and bruises.

But no one would say a thing about the harsh methods of the Sword Clan's Chief because he was the strongest of his peers.

A true prodigy.

When he was only a week old, the then child had no problem slicing his parents to pieces without even batting an eye.

When he reached a month in age, there was no one amongst the young children that had already spent years honing their skills that could compare to him.

By the time he was a year old, the Sword Clan's previous chief was just another chicken just waiting for the slaughter.

It would have been the mistake of any who would dare displease the most talented sword genius Lokhil had seen since the Shetavi rose to what they were now.

The one who had decided on the system was of course the current Chief of the Sword Clan.

It had been ninety-eight years since his birth when he decided to have his first child.

The lifespan of the Shetavi typically lasted until a century and a half, but with the harshness of the land death loomed everywhere.

Everywhere outside of the vast territory of the Shetavi was unsafe.

Even the smallest of creatures could have a Livelli if they were fortunate enough.

So, whenever you met something out in the wild, it was unknown whether you would have met your executioner or just an average rodent.

That also meant that keeping livestock posed a dangerous risk.

Who would have known if one of the animals raised would develop a Livelli and take action against its keepers.

Therefore, the Shetavi valued strength above all else to protect their lands.

The Sword Clan Chief above all others was the perfect example of a true Shetavi.

He was amoral.

No one could tell him what to do.

No one could disobey his order.

No one would ever have thought that one Shetavi would be biding his time while garnering a hatred for the leader of the Shetavi.

They all grew amoral under their amoral leader.

They all strived to become a perfect example of a true Shetavi.

But Z'ōelo aimed to become himself.

He was born with memories of his past life.

'Why?'

He had thought only one genuine thought before committing to his new life.

'Why doesn't matter.'

He wanted to make a new life for himself; one unlike the one from those dreadful nightmares that plagued his sleep.

The pain.

'NO!!!'

THE PAIN.

"NO!!!"

Fwoosh!

Z'ōelo awoke from yet another dreadful nightmare.

His face was dripping with sweat, his clothes matching with dark stains.

Even in his dreams he couldn't escape the pain of having his flesh ruptured and blood spilled without any concern for his being.

He wiped his face with his right sleeve while thinking to himself the same thing that kept him going ever since he was made to handle a sword.

'Once I'm stronger than him it'll all have been worth it.'

And just like that, there was no trace of sweat on his face.

Only a murderous stare was directed at no one in particular; he could not wait for the day when he could show others his true self.

Z'ōelo swore that he would put an end to the brutality of the mind broken leader of his people.

That's why every day for the entirety of his life he assumed the role of his firstborn son.

Loyal, Spirited, and Sharp.

Exactly like the motto of the tyrant leader, he would become something far worse than his hideous father.

It was the only way he knew how to be.

Just like how he had to survive in his past life, he would not assume the role of the victim.

As long as he told himself that it, they were only father and son. 

As long as he told himself that, he would still have a parent unlike his past.

At least in this life his father was a big shot whom he could ride the coattails of and attain real strength.

He would become a blade that threw itself at every whetstone that came his way and strike back sharper than ever.

He would become a better version of himself and with his new form, it be all to possible to escape his own personal hell.