The night was unusually quiet.
Under the dim glow of the streetlight, Ren Hoshikawa sat alone on a rusted swing in the park behind his apartment. Summer humidity clung to his skin, but he barely noticed. His hands rested on his lap—calloused, worn, and trembling slightly. Not from exhaustion… but from frustration.
The kind of frustration that eats away at you, slowly.
"Kendo is tradition, Ren. What you're doing is flashy nonsense. One-handed swings? Jumping around like an acrobat? You're not in a movie."
He'd heard those words more times than he could count. From instructors. From judges. From his own parents.
And he wasn't angry at them.
They were right.
The way he fought—the way he moved—wasn't what Kendo wanted. It wasn't what Japan wanted. It was messy, fast, instinctual. Like a wild animal with a sword. Not clean. Not proper.
"Why do I even bother…" he muttered, his voice barely above a whisper.
The swing creaked beneath him. His phone buzzed in his pocket—probably another message from his mother, asking if he was coming home for dinner. He didn't check it. He just stared ahead, eyes dull.
"If I was born in another time, another country… maybe even another world..." he said to the empty air, "I'd be something. A warrior, a knight, a damn sword god or whatever they called them."
He chuckled. It was the kind of laugh that came after crying.
Then the wind changed.
He felt it first—not in his skin, but in his bones. The air shifted, cold and sharp, like steel sliding across flesh.
Then came the light.
A sudden, blinding golden radiance burst from the sky above him, like a second sun tearing the heavens open. Ren stumbled backward, shielding his eyes. The clouds split apart as something began descending—no, falling—from the breach above.
A sword.
Not a normal one. It was massive, double-edged, its blade shimmering with divine runes and molten gold. It rotated slowly in the air, emitting a low hum that sounded like chanting metal. Every rotation rang like the toll of a celestial bell.
Ren couldn't move.
His feet were frozen to the earth, eyes wide, heart pounding. The blade was falling fast, impossibly fast—toward him.
"Wait—!"
He barely raised his arm before—
SHUNK.
Pain.
Unimaginable pain exploded in his chest, ripping through nerves and bone. His knees gave out. He collapsed, gasping, choking. Blood splattered the gravel beneath him.
The sword had pierced him. Not just stabbed—but embedded itself in his heart.
He couldn't scream. Couldn't even breathe. He looked down—and saw the blade shining bright, brighter than ever, until—
It shattered.
Into thousands of golden motes, like fireflies made of starlight. Each tiny piece of the sword faded into his body, disappearing beneath his skin.
His vision blurred.
The world darkened.
And then—nothing.
He died.
…
…
...
And yet...
There was warmth.