The Most Satisfied Reincarnate

A couple of days later, the sun blazed mercilessly overhead, casting its scorching rays upon Desmond's expansive backyard. The oppressive heat might have drained the energy of mere mortals, but Desmond remained unaffected. With unwavering determination, he stood tall amidst the lush meadow, his left hand gripping a gleaming sword.

Swing... Swing...

The rhythmic sound of his blade slicing through the air reverberated beneath the chorus of chirping birds. Each powerful swing sent a gust of wind swirling around him, a testament to his unparalleled skill and finesse.

"50," he muttered under his breath, his voice laced with a hint of satisfaction.

Swoosh!

Rivulets of sweat cascaded down Desmond's body, saturating the verdant grass and drenching his attire. Beads of perspiration clung to his tousled hair, only to be whisked away by the sheer force of his relentless swordplay.

"100," he declared, his grip on the hilt tightening. The strain of his exertion painted a crimson hue across his knuckles. Yet, with each passing milestone, his swings grew swifter, propelled by an inexorable surge of adrenaline.

"200!"

Finally, at the culmination of his physical limits, Desmond collapsed onto the earth, gasping for breath as if starved of oxygen.

"Huff... Huff..."

He gasped, his mouth agape, momentarily blinded by the sun's unyielding glare. Its radiance intensified the heat coursing through his veins, seeping into his very core.

"Now, it's time to delve into the realm of magic," Desmond contemplated, his thoughts interwoven with labored breaths. He inhaled deeply, seeking to regain control of his rhythm, quelling the dizziness swirling within his mind and soothing the ache in his fatigued muscles.

His magenta eyes gazed heavenward, momentarily captivated by the expanse of cerulean sky. Steeling himself, Desmond pushed himself upright, using his sword as leverage.

Pat... Pat...

His hand brushed against his shirt, dislodging clinging blades of grass. He cast a cursory glance at his right hand, swathed in protective bandages, concealing the remnants of a painful mistake.

A sigh escaped his lips, tinged with weariness, yet his eyes emitted an unwavering resolve. The memory of his past folly ignited a smoldering anger deep within his being.

With a defiant gesture, Desmond hurled his sword to the ground, his outstretched hand pointing defiantly at the heavens.

"Fireball!" he bellowed, his voice reverberating with fervor.

In an instant, a basketball-sized fireball erupted from his palm, searing the air around him with blistering intensity. The scorching heat caused patches of grass to ignite, flames flickering amidst the emerald sea.

Swoosh!

Like a comet hurtling toward the firmament, the fireball surged forward, unstoppable in its fiery trajectory. But just shy of its destination, the flames disintegrated, dissipating into oblivion, devoid of life-sustaining oxygen.

As the remnants of his anger slowly ebbed away, Desmond watched the ephemeral blaze vanish into the boundless expanse of the sky.

"Young master," a voice called out, interrupting his contemplation.

He snapped out of his reverie as the distant voice of a maid reached his ears, beckoning him back to reality.

Desmond pivoted on his heels, his gaze meeting the approaching maid who balanced a tray laden with delectable delicacies.

"Here's... the lunch... young master," she stuttered, her hands trembling under his scrutinizing stare. The lingering remnants of his anger continued to cast a shadow over his countenance. The maid, unaware of the turmoil within him, faltered under his intense gaze, her nerves betraying her.

"I apologize for earlier. Just set it down there," Desmond said, his voice tempered with understanding as he noticed the unease plaguing the maid. He was cognizant that his own state affected those around him, and he harbored no desire to compound their distress.

"It's quite all right, young master. I shall take my leave," the maid responded, bowing slightly before retreating from the room.

Desmond grasped the tray of food and settled onto the ground, allowing himself to be embraced by the idyllic panorama before him. His eyes traced the contours of the cerulean sky, the fluffy clouds drifting lazily above, while his senses reveled in the soothing caress of the gentle breeze and the verdant embrace of the surrounding meadows.

"Simply breathtaking," he murmured, the beauty of the scenery captivating his soul. "If not for the ever-looming threat of assassins targeting my family and me, I would relish the chance to embark on a grand adventure and revel in the enchantment of this fantastical realm."

While his gaze lingered upon the picturesque view, Desmond's attention shifted to the sumptuous feast before him. His plate boasted succulent chicken, an array of vibrant vegetables, perfectly seasoned potatoes, and a goblet filled with amber-hued fermented wine.

"I yearn for the taste of rice, a memory now lost to me. Why do the denizens of this realm process all their grains into bread? Utilizing rice would augment the portions of their meals and alleviate the burden of daily expenses," he ruminated silently as he savored each mouthful with gusto, accompanied by the satisfying clink of utensils against his plate.

"Ahhhh... this wine alone holds the power to assuage my frayed nerves," he thought, his lips curling into a slight smile as he took a leisurely sip, savoring the complex notes dancing upon his palate. *slurp*

In that moment, the mellifluous voice of the maid reached his ears once more. "Young master, one of the maids wishes to provide you with information regarding the item you requested."

"Oh?" Desmond turned his gaze towards the maid, who had returned with a renewed bow of deference from a distance.

"Inform her that she must wait. I am savoring my lunch," he stated, his tone conveying a sense of indulgence.

"Of course, young master," the maid replied, swiftly retreating to convey his message to the eager informant.

A few moments passed, and Desmond could discern the hushed murmurs of the maids conversing amongst themselves. Suddenly, their chatter ceased abruptly, punctuated by a single exclamation that echoed through the air. Desmond couldn't help but offer a wry smile at the maid's animated response.

After a few more minutes, Desmond rose from his spot and approached the restless maid who had been waiting anxiously.

"Well, what news do you bring?" he inquired, his voice laced with anticipation.

The maid's eyes widened as she heard her master's voice, surprised to find him standing right in front of her. "My apologies, young master. I managed to acquire a bag of lizard blood and snake blood, but I was unable to procure any from demons or elves."

"The guards have tightened their grip recently, inspecting everyone who purchases slaves. Obtaining elf blood is far beyond my capabilities," she hesitantly explained.

Desmond interjected, cutting off her words. "I appreciate your efforts. Well done." He gently patted her shoulder, signaling his approval, before turning to make his way back to his room.

"Oh, bring all the bags to the backyard," he added, noting the bewildered expression on the maid's face.

"Just bring them. I have something in mind," he clarified, waving her off as he continued on his path.

"Yes, young master," the maid replied obediently.

...

Under the veil of night, within the confines of Desmond's room, he found himself seated cross-legged on his bed, his gaze seemingly distant, lost in contemplation. The moon's soft glow cast a silvery luminescence upon his eyes, reflecting the turmoil of his thoughts with a shimmering display of magenta hues.

"Should I proceed? Or should I exercise patience for a few more days?" Desmond's mind wavered, teetering on the precipice of a decision.

Yet, the prospect of extracting a demon's blood left him uncertain, plagued by doubt.

"But if I delay any longer..." he mused, a tinge of urgency seeping into his thoughts.

*knock, knock*

The sudden rapping at his door shattered the stillness, jerking him from his contemplative state. He furrowed his brows, unaccustomed to being disturbed in the dead of night.

"Who is it?" he called out, his voice tinged with a hint of annoyance.

"It's the maid, young master. The one who transported the bags to the backyard," came the response from beyond the door.

"Enter," he replied, albeit reluctantly.

*creak*

The door swung open, revealing the disheveled maid, her attire marred by dirt and her hands stained crimson, evidence of her toil with the bags.

"Have the guards not assisted you?" Desmond's brow furrowed as he observed the maid's exhausted state, a hint of concern seeping into his voice.

"They offered their assistance, but with the sheer number of bags...," she trailed off, her voice filled with fatigue.

Desmond's memory was jogged, recalling that he had ordered not just one, but a staggering 200 bags of blood. He let out a weary sigh, massaging his temples to alleviate the building tension.

"You've done well. What brings you here now?" he inquired, his eyes meeting the maid's gaze.

"Young master, I wanted to inform you about the upcoming elf auction, scheduled to take place in four days. However, when I arrived, I realized you had already departed," she explained, a tinge of disappointment coloring her words.

"I see. Thank you for informing me," Desmond responded, his attention momentarily diverted towards the luminous moonlight that bathed the world outside.

"Please excuse me, then," the maid said with a bow before turning to leave the room.

Desmond made his way to the wardrobe, retrieving his trusty sword and fastening it securely to his side. He opted for a change of attire, forsaking the customary black garb for a nobleman's ensemble, adorned with a mask that concealed his identity.

As he approached the mirror, he carefully examined his transformed appearance. The mask, fashioned in the likeness of a human face, coupled with his refined attire, evoked an air of sophistication and mystery. A thought tugged at his mind, fleeting yet poignant.

"It would have been perfect for a masked ball... if only I had my hand back," he mused, his gaze fixed on his reflection, tinged with a hint of longing.