My name is Rowan Hale.
Throughout my life, I was a man who devoted everything to a single thing: the sword.
I did not merely train-I was obsessed.
I studied every school that ever existed, from modern techniques refined by sport and rules, to ancient sword arts born from blood-soaked battlefields. Every movement, every angle of a strike, every way to grip a hilt—I consumed them all without leaving a trace.
I won every fencing competition I entered. Victory after victory only deepened my obsession. I was never satisfied—I was hungry. Hungry for new techniques. Hungry for perfection.
Yet without realizing it, I was slowly leaving something behind.
I did not think about my own life.
I forgot that life was not only about sharpening a blade.
Life was also about walking beside someone you love.
About coming home to laughter.
About building a family and growing old together.
I realized all of that…
too late.
I was seventy years old.
My younger sibling had married and had twin daughters—my grandnieces. They became small lights in the quiet remainder of my life.
Do I regret it?
To be honest—at first, yes.
That regret came like an old wound, suddenly aching again.
But happiness is different for everyone, isn't it?
I had no wife. No children of my own.
Still, in my own way, I was happy—to be a grandfather figure to my sibling's children.
Unfortunately, that happiness did not last.
At the age of seventy-two, I was diagnosed with heart cancer.
Four years had passed since that day.
Now, my remaining time could be counted in days.
I lay on a hospital bed, my body weak and fragile, staring at the white ceiling that felt farther away with every passing second.
Beside me, I could hear crying.
My sibling's voice… and their spouse's.
I could also feel the anxious gazes of two small pairs of eyes. One of my grandnieces held my hand with her tiny fingers and whispered softly,
"Grandpa, are you okay?"
I lifted my trembling hand and gently stroked their heads, one by one.
"Don't be afraid," I whispered.
"Grandpa is fine."
I smiled—though the world behind my eyes was slowly collapsing.
Breathing was hard.
Every breath felt like it had to be exchanged for a piece of memory.
A few minutes passed—I knew this not from a clock, but from the way my grandchild's grip slowly weakened.
"Grandpa?"
Her voice sounded distant. Far too distant.
I wanted to answer.
But my chest rose only once…
then slowly fell.
The last breath left my lips without a sound.
And for the first time after a long war against my own body—
I let everything go.
The machine beside the bed continued its quiet beeping. Its rhythm slowed, then changed. The hospital light reflected on my face—a grandfather who now looked unnaturally calm.
My hand was still being held by my grandnieces. One of them gently shook it, hesitant… as if afraid that this movement would truly be the last.
"Grandpa…?"
There was no response.
A few seconds passed.
The next second felt far too long.
The machine's sound stretched out, piercing the room. A nurse rushed in, followed by a doctor whose face already understood everything before touching my wrist.
The children stood frozen.
They were not crying yet—not fully understanding that this moment could never be undone.
The doctor let out a short breath.
"It's time."
The crying broke out.
Not a scream—but a sound collapsing in on itself, again and again, like a chest that had forgotten how to breathe.
One of my grandnieces hugged my body tightly, refusing to accept that the warmth would soon disappear.
In the cold hospital room, without music, without ceremony—
I was gone.
Leaving behind an empty bed.
A machine that was finally turned off.
And two children who went home without the hand that used to guide them.
Am I dead?
The thought surfaced without panic.
My body felt numb.
Not like sleep. Not like unconsciousness.
I tried to breathe—nothing moved.
No pain. No relief. Nothing at all.
I tried to move my fingers.
My consciousness remained, but my body felt left behind—like an old coat I no longer wore.
Strangely…
I was not afraid.
Only a calm, cold confusion—far too peaceful for something called death.
Then I opened my eyes.
Not to a hospital ceiling.
Before me stretched a vast world—too vast to comprehend.
No walls. No floor. Only an endless expanse, as if I stood within the universe's first breath.
"What is this…?" I muttered.
There were no clouds. No fire. No blinding light like in the stories people told.
Only space…
and the feeling that it was watching me in return.
"Am I in heaven… or hell?"
There was no answer.
Only a quiet realization: something had ended—yet something else had not begun.
Then, a presence appeared.
Not footsteps.
Not a voice.
But a sensation—as if the air itself had become aware.
"You do not need to be afraid."
The voice came not from any direction, but from within my own mind.
"Who are you?" I asked.
"The Warden of the Threshold," it replied.
"The one who ensures that an ending does not always remain an ending."
"So… I'm dead?"
"Your body, yes. Your consciousness, no."
"What happens now?"
"Normally, a soul rests. It fades. It disappears."
Normally.
"But?"
"You are too bound," it said.
"And another world is in need of a soul like yours."
"Another world?"
"Not heaven. Not hell," it answered.
"But a beginning."
The space collapsed into a single point. I felt a powerful pull—inescapable.
"Will I remember everything?"
"Not entirely," it answered honestly.
"But the feelings—the weight—will remain with you."
I closed my eyes.
"Then… let me live better this time."
There was no reply.
Only darkness.
I awakened with a painful breath.
Foreign air filled my lungs. My body was small. Weak. The world felt far too large.
A cry escaped my mouth—not from sorrow—
but from life.
I do not know what world this is.
I do not know who I am now.
Yet deep within me, one thing did not die—
the desire to make things right.
I had finally been given a second chance.