When I came to, I was lying outside the trial chambers.
The stone was cold beneath my back. My breath was steady—but shallow. I felt… strangely rested. But not fully. Like I'd only borrowed rest, rather than earned it.
I stared at the sky above. Pale blue. Empty.
But my thoughts weren't here.
They were still trapped in that other world.
The place where I had died—again and again—only to stand up and die some more.
That wasn't normal. No matter how I looked at it.
That wasn't the game I knew.
And I… wasn't the same either.
---
Next to me lay the spoils of that nightmare.
A pitch-black sword, resting silently in its sheath—its presence oppressive even while dormant.
A tattered samurai robe, heavy and dark, with the kanji for poet—「詩人」—burned into the back like a branding iron.
And in my mind…
An ocean.
A maelstrom of swordsmanship.
The technique—[Poetic Sword]—had nested itself inside my brain like a second language, whispering instructions and rhythm. Every swing etched itself into my memory.
It wasn't just a skill.
It was a philosophy. A song written in slashes and footwork.
I clenched my hand.
Step one was complete.
One more step toward increasing my survivability.
One more rope wrapped around my death flags, loosened—even if only a little.
---
I checked the date.
One and a half days left before the Academy officially began.
Good.
Not much time.
But enough.
I stood. My knees ached, and my legs wobbled like brittle scaffolding.
I gathered the loot. Strapped the robe to my back. Carried the sword. Then dusted off my half-burned clothes, smearing dried blood into old ash.
The journey back to the dorms took nearly three hours.
I walked it all.
---
The city was alive.
Futuristic towers pierced the clouds.
Air trains zipped through their glowing rails.
Hovercars hummed above the ground like angry wasps.
Students milled about, buying essentials, chatting, laughing.
And then there was me.
Shabby, bloodstained, smelling of ash and sweat.
I looked like I had crawled out of a battlefield.
Which, technically… I had.
People stared. I could feel their eyes on me. Disgust. Pity. Curiosity.
One group whispered as I passed.
Another looked away entirely.
But strangely… a few stared longer than necessary.
Maybe it was my face.
This doll-like body Axel had—too clean, too cute. A pretty boy wearing the aftermath of war.
I probably looked like a cursed child from a dark fairytale.
The thought made me chuckle under my breath.
---
When I finally arrived at my dorm, I didn't hesitate.
The first thing I needed—
Was a shower.
> "Master! You're late!"
The familiar mechanical voice rang out.
Ruby.
My AI companion. My tiny red Rubik's cube with a bit too much sass.
She floated in the air, eyes glowing faintly.
> "You're a mess."
"You should see the other guy," I muttered.
> "You were gone for over fourteen hours. I was about to report you missing."
"Guess I made it back just in time."
---
After the shower—hot enough to sting and long enough to prune my fingers—I collapsed onto the bed, a fresh towel still around my shoulders.
The steam hadn't washed the memories away.
But it helped.
I opened my terminal and searched for the nearest public library. I needed more than just what I remembered from the game. I needed real knowledge.
Magitech theories.
Engineering schematics.
Combat manuals.
Social structure.
Politics.
Everything.
But as the search results popped up on screen… my body refused to move.
Even my fingers trembled.
Just the thought of standing up made me nauseous.
So I allowed myself a rare mercy:
Sleep.
Just for a bit.
---
I blinked once.
Then twice.
Then again.
And I was gone.
---
When I woke, the room was dark. The air was still.
Ruby sat dormant on the desk, her red LED face casting a faint glow across the wood.
I sat up slowly, careful not to pull anything.
My sword—Obsidian Fang—rested beside the bed.
I picked it up.
The weight was familiar now.
Comforting, in a way.
I left the dorm in silence.
---
The city was sleeping.
No hovercars. No buzzing drones. No noise.
Just a gentle breeze and the whisper of power lines overhead.
I made my way to a nearby park. Found a secluded spot surrounded by trees and soft grass. No one in sight.
The sword art pulsed in my mind like an itch under the skin.
So I moved.
---
Clumsy at first.
The basics were fine—stances, grip, draw.
But the footwork?
The rhythm?
The flow?
Every time I reached the second stance, I stumbled.
My core couldn't keep up.
My legs twisted wrong.
My hips moved late.
---
I pushed harder.
Again. And again. And again.
My muscles screamed.
My feet bled from friction against the ground.
I fell. More than once.
But I always got up.
---
Then, slowly—
It changed.
Faster.
Sharper.
More fluid.
I wasn't just moving anymore.
I was dancing.
---
The sword became an extension of my body.
Each slash followed the last like notes in a melody.
Each step followed the beat of something ancient. Something buried in the sword art's philosophy.
My breath turned heavy. My skin soaked in sweat.
But I didn't stop.
Couldn't stop.
The moment I paused, the exhaustion would catch up and swallow me whole.
---
When the sky began to brighten and golden light spilled between the buildings—
I was sitting on the soft grass.
Gasping for air.
The blade across my lap.
And inside me…
Something shifted.
A click.
Like a gear locking into place.
The first seeds of muscle memory had taken root.
---
It wasn't much.
It wouldn't save me in a real fight just yet.
But it was progress.
And right now?
Progress was everything.