Sengoku Era — The Age of the Samurai
From the peak of Nouru Hill, the world below looks small.
I have gazed upon it countless times… yet every time, the same emptiness remains.
War. Battle. Blood. Endless duels—
that was all my life ever contained.
What did I truly gain from it all?
What remains after stepping over so many corpses?
They called me Ryōtō no Akuma—the Twin-Blade Demon.
The samurai who had never known defeat.
No swordsman from East or West could so much as wound me.
All who faced me fell like leaves in autumn.
And yet… none of those victories ever carried meaning.
Now, all I feel is exhaustion.
A weariness that reaches into the soul.
No comrades.
No woman who loved me.
No heart that remained truly loyal at my side.
My life was nothing more than a long road shrouded in the shadow of death.
And the irony of it all…
At the end of my years, it was not a great enemy who claimed my life,
but my own three disciples.
Children I had taken in from a young age.
Children I taught to hold the sword.
Children I trusted without reservation.
Today, they stabbed me from behind.
Such a disgraceful end for a samurai once feared across the world—
to die as an old man betrayed.
As my body slowly collapsed to the ground, I could cling to only one wish:
"If I am ever given another chance…
let me live as a true human being.
With genuine companions…
with a woman I can love…
in a world that does not force me to kill again."
With that final hope,
Takemura Ryoujin, the Twin-Blade Demon, closed his eyes at the age of eighty-four.
His blood soaked into the grass of Nouru Hill—
and his former life ended in disgrace.
**
Darkness.
That was the first thing I felt after death claimed me on Nouru Hill.
But it was not cold… not painful…
It felt like an endlessly deep sleep.
Then, slowly… something changed.
Breath.
I drew air into my lungs—too deep, too rough—as if my lungs were learning how to live for the very first time.
My chest rose.
Then I jolted awake.
"Ugh… where am I…?"
That voice—
It wasn't mine.
This body felt light.
Too light.
Overflowing with energy.
I opened my eyes.
A rotting wooden ceiling… cracked walls… the stench of filth and dust.
A cramped room—one fit for a prisoner, not a human being.
I tried to sit up, but something felt wrong.
When my hand touched my chest—
No wound.
No stab marks.
No blood.
No scars.
And yet I had died with three blades piercing my back.
"Impossible… my body couldn't have healed…"
I stared at my palm.
This wasn't my hand.
Not the hand of a samurai who had defeated hundreds of warriors.
These hands were smaller… yet firm… solid…
The hands of a youth.
Takemura Ryoujin's eyes widened.
A violent wave of dizziness slammed into his head as he forced himself to sit on the bare wooden bed.
He frowned, narrowing his eyes as he examined the cramped room.
"What kind of place is this…? Why is this house so small? A healer's shack…?" he muttered.
Ryoujin quickly touched his body.
This body… was light.
This skin… taut, young.
"This isn't my body… this isn't the body of an old man," he murmured, raising his hand to feel his face.
Then—
Tap. Tap.
Footsteps approached from outside the door.
"Who's there?!" Ryoujin raised his voice—then froze.
He covered his mouth. "What language was that…? Why does it sound different?"
"It's me, Lord Norak," a woman's voice answered from outside.
"Norak…?"
The door opened.
A short-haired girl with red hair and round eyes stepped inside, carrying a basket. Her expression was filled with worry.
"Please forgive me, my lord. I couldn't come last night… the rain was too heavy," she said, bowing deeply.
Ryoujin stared at her without blinking.
"What language is she speaking… and yet why can I understand it?" he whispered.
Then he straightened his posture.
"Tell me something," he said calmly. "What is my name?"
"Huh?!" The girl looked up, clearly shocked.
"My name," Ryoujin repeated.
"Y-your name is Lord Norak. Norak Von Azel Astarion, the youngest son of Duke Astarion."
"The youngest son… of a Duke…?" Ryoujin murmured in confusion.
His gaze swept across the room once more—the nearly collapsing walls, the dust-covered floor.
This place…
was not where a noble should be living.
"Why does this room look like a horse stable?"
"M-my lord… are you feeling unwell?" the girl asked anxiously.
Ryoujin ignored the question. "What's your name?"
"M-me? My lord doesn't recognize me?" The girl looked genuinely confused.
"Just answer."
"I'm Vivi, my lord. Your attendant." She bowed slightly. "I usually come to bring your meals."
"Hey, Vivi."
"Yes, my lord?"
"Is there a mirror here?"
The girl glanced around. "There is… wait a moment."
She placed the basket on the worn-out table and walked to a wooden chest at the corner of the room.
Ryoujin silently watched as she carefully rummaged through old belongings.
At last, Vivi pulled out a round object with cracked edges.
"Here, my lord," she said, offering it to him.
Ryoujin took it—a small mirror, its surface dulled by age. Slowly, he raised it before his face.
"What… is this?" he whispered.
His hand trembled as he touched his own face. Young skin. Smooth cheeks. No scars of war.
Vivi stood there, frowning, clearly confused by his reaction.
"My lord… are you truly all right? Should I call a Mage?" she asked.
Ryoujin slowly shook his head, unable to look away from the unfamiliar face reflected in the mirror.
"Tell me something… what country is this?"
"A c-country?" Vivi lifted her head. "This is the Kingdom of Eldoria, my lord. Your father is one of its dukes—the ruler of the city of Variante."
"Eldoria?" Ryoujin pressed his fingers to his temple. "How far is this kingdom from Nihon?"
"Nihon?" Vivi looked even more confused. "What is that, my lord?"
"You… don't know?" Ryoujin stared at her as if the world itself had been overturned.
The girl slowly shook her head, her expression growing more uncertain.
"I think it would be best if I call a Mage. My lord doesn't seem well."
"No need. I'm not sick."
"But—"
"I said I'm not sick."
Vivi lowered her head. "Yes, my lord…"
Ryoujin let out a long breath, once again surveying the narrow room—wooden walls on the verge of rotting, a worn mat, the stench of dampness biting at his nose.
"If I'm the son of a duke… why does my room look like a horse stable? Is my father poor or something?"
Vivi scratched her head, growing more confused by the strange question.
"Your father isn't poor… it's just…"
"Just what? Say it."
"My lord… you were sent here because you're considered a disgrace to the family." Vivi lowered her voice, as if afraid of her own words. "You're the only child of Duke Astarion who doesn't possess Mana."
"Mana?" Ryoujin raised an eyebrow. "What is that?"
Vivi let out a short sigh but answered anyway. "Mana is the pure energy used to control your family's magic. Without Mana… you're seen as shameful. That's why you were isolated."
Ryoujin rubbed his chin, thinking deeply. "Mana… magic… so people here actually use magic?"
He looked back at Vivi. "What kind of magic does my family use?"
"Your family is one of the most powerful Mage families in Eldoria," Vivi replied softly. "They're famous for Circle Magic."
"What kind of magic is that?"
"Ah… my lord." Vivi rubbed her face in frustration. "What's wrong with you today?"
"Just answer."
"Circle Magic is engraving magic—creating various runic diagrams that produce specific effects." She shrugged. "But I don't know much about it, my lord. I'm just an attendant…"
Ryoujin fell silent. He asked no more questions. His eyes grew distant, his thoughts drifting as if he were trying to comprehend this new world in silence.
"My lord… I have to leave now," Vivi said quietly.
"Where are you going?" Ryoujin's voice was flat.
"Back to the castle."
"Aren't you my attendant?"
Vivi gave a bitter smile. "Yes… before. Now I'm just the one who delivers your meals. Your father doesn't allow me to stay here."
"Go," Ryoujin nodded faintly.
"I'll be leaving now, my lord."
"Wait."
Vivi froze at the doorway. "Yes, my lord?"
"How old am I now?"
"My lord… you're seventeen."
Ryoujin went still for a moment. "…That's young."
"Yes, my lord."
With that, Vivi hurried out of the dilapidated hut, her brow tightly furrowed—utterly confused by what had happened to her master.
Ryoujin let out a long breath. He stepped down from the worn bed and walked toward the table. His gaze settled on the contents of the basket—stale bread, two fruits, and a small block of cheese.
He picked up one of the fruits, turning it slowly in his hand, then walked toward the still-open door.
"A disgrace to the family…" he murmured. "But this boy's body… it doesn't feel like that of a disgrace at all. The muscles are dense. Solid. Like a body trained with the sword."
He stopped right at the threshold.
At that moment—his eyes widened, his mouth parting slightly.
"…Beautiful."
Before him stretched a sight that had never existed in the Sengoku era: a clear blue sky untouched by the smoke of war, colossal trees towering like pillars of heaven, and crystalline lights drifting slowly through the air like glowing insects.
A cool breeze brushed past him, carrying the fresh scent of earth.
Ryoujin stood motionless.
This new world… wasn't merely strange.
It was breathtaking.
He stepped slowly into the yard of the dilapidated house—then froze when his eyes caught something painfully familiar.
At the center of the yard stood a thick wooden post, its surface covered in deep, sharp cuts overlapping one another. Around it lay several other wooden logs bound with rope, arranged like targets for strikes, dragging drills, and endurance training.
He recognized them instantly.
Training tools.
Tools meant to temper the body… through hardship and pain.
"He really tried…" Ryoujin whispered, exhaling softly. "But why am I in this body? What happened to its original owner…?"
His hand slowly lifted, fingers reaching for the embedded post.
The moment his skin touched the wood, the world spun.
Ryoujin's vision went dark—then exploded into light and furious voices roaring in his ears.
"You are a disgrace to this family, Norak!" "No… please, give me a chance, Father!" "Useless little brother!" "Don't ever come back here! Don't call yourself part of this family!"
Ryoujin staggered, clutching his head. The pain felt like a blade piercing straight into his mind.
Then another set of memories surfaced—clearer, longer.
He saw a teenage boy… the true owner of this body.
Norak.
Training alone in that same yard, day and night. Falling, rising, falling again, rising once more. Ragged breaths, hands torn and bleeding, body bruised and battered—yet the boy's resolve never faded.
Days passed.
Weeks passed.
Even as he failed… even as he was cursed, driven away, abandoned, humiliated—the boy kept trying.
Then the memory carried Ryoujin into a small room.
Norak sat on the worn bed, his body trembling, yet his eyes burned with the last remnants of hope.
He raised a finger… and began writing something in the air.
A dark circle formed, filled with runic engravings Ryoujin did not recognize. The circle spun—faster and faster… darker… more violent.
Then—
THE CIRCLE WAS ABSORBED INTO NORAK'S BODY.
A piercing scream echoed through the memory.
Norak's body convulsed in agony, eyes wide open, veins bulging across his skin like writhing serpents.
And then—he collapsed.
Darkness.
All memories abruptly cut off.