Cane shot upright, clutching his neck instinctively—only to find it whole. His chest heaved, lungs pulling in air like he hadn't breathed in hours. Sweat soaked his back.
He was alive. Or something like it.
The dojo was just as he remembered. Silent. Dimly lit. The same warmth from the lanterns, the scent of polished wood and faint incense.
And across the room, seated in stillness at the edge of the tatami, was the man in the black and blue yukata.
He didn't move, didn't change at all just sat there in calm, unwavering silence, as if nothing had ever happened.
Cane stared into the distance for a long time, his breath coming out in a shaky gasp. The reality of the moment began to sink in, and he muttered to himself, "That... that was real. I died."
His fingers trembled, a final physical manifestation of his overwhelming disbelief. The last thing he remembered was the world flipping, his vision turning sideways—and then seeing his own body from the floor.
[You did.]
The system's voice cut in, unusually subdued.
[Your head was separated cleanly. You didn't even realize it until a second after it was over.]
Cane stood slowly, his legs stiff. The man hadn't moved an inch, and Cane whispered, "I'm not doing that again," as he backed away toward the side of the dojo.
At least not yet, he thought. His gaze fell upon the row of shelves that lined the rear wall behind the training mat, filled with scrolls, manuals, and bundled notes that were dusty, yet well-preserved.
Cane took one, then another. He settled cross-legged beside the shelves and began to read.
The pages weren't just instructions they were memories.
A name was written on the first:
"Diary of Shiyo Yashira."
The founder.
Inside, inked in steady, unhurried brushstrokes, was a life. A quiet one. A difficult one.
"The mornings were always cold. I used to wake before the sun, sweep the courtyard, and practice alone until my hands bled. The others—Vandraziel and Cravayne—they had servants to train with, teachers, halls full of disciples. I had dust, and silence, and the rhythm of my own breathing."
"We were family once. Cousins. Our blood traced back to the same ancestral line of swordsmen. But only their branches flourished. Nobility welcomed them. Vandraziel mastered the art of single-kill precision. Cravayne, the flowing surge that breaks through everything. They became symbols. I became a footnote."
"They told me to give up. No one wants a style that takes ten thousand cuts to perfect. No one praises a fighter who wears his opponent down instead of cutting them down."
"But I wasn't trying to be praised."
Cane swallowed hard. The brushwork was smooth, but something in the lines felt heavy. Tired.
"When I fought them, I didn't lose. Not once. But I also didn't win the crowd. They called me excessive. Cruel. Inefficient. They said I lacked elegance. What I had was resolve. And that was never enough."
Cane turned the page.
A sketch. Three men seated together, each with a katana resting on their lap. The man on the left was tall, composed—Vandraziel. The one in the middle was broad-shouldered, wild-eyed—Cravayne. And on the right, in shadows, face obscured by a stroke of ink, sat Shiyo Yashira.
Cane stared at him. "…So this is what they erased."
[Vandraziel and Cravayne are still honored in sword schools across Wesvalen and Eastreach.]
[But 'Yashira'? Never seen it. Not even as a footnote.]
Cane ran a finger over the page, a frown on his face. "So this dojo... it's a tomb," he muttered, then closed the diary gently.
He flipped through the rest of the materials, and in a thinner booklet, he found training routines. Not just techniques, but entire philosophies: diagrams of breathing patterns and footwork, a structured daily schedule, and even meditation.
Every page began with the same word:
"Resolve."
He rose slowly, closing the last page of the training manual. For a moment, he just sat there silent, thinking.
Then he slapped both his cheeks with open palms. The sound cracked through the empty dojo.
"Alright," he whispered to himself. "Let's try this your way."
He tied back his hair with a strip of cloth he'd found tucked in a drawer, then crossed the mat. His footsteps echoed as he stepped into the very center of the dojo, where the air somehow felt heavier and more focused.
Cane exhaled, closed his eyes, and then opened them again, imagining the movements from the book. He took a stance and began his training, filling the once silent dojo with noise for the very first time.
Time became abstract, there were no clocks. No windows. Only the lanterns, ever-burning. Only the scent of wood and dust and wax.
Cane trained until his arms trembled and his legs gave out. Then he would crawl to the corner, eat from a stash of dried rations he'd found hidden in a trunk, and rest. Then do it again. And do it again. And do it again.
Again.
Again,
And again.
Somewhere along the way, training became a rhythm. A cycle.
"Cut low, step left… no, damn it. Again."
[Your footwork is still garbage.]
"I'd like to see you try with legs."
[I don't need legs to recognize failure.]
He practiced until the walls blurred. Until he could hear the whisper of his blade before it moved. Sometimes, when he ate, he'd talk to the silent swordsman.
One evening, while chewing on dried jerky, Cane spoke into the silence. "You know, you could give me a hint. Just a little. Like maybe grunt once if I'm on the right track?" A profound silence was his only answer. He didn't get any reaction at all.
Cane sighed, waving the meat in the air. "Fine. No jerky for you, then."
[That joke was bad, and so is your grip.]
He kept training.
There were nights if they were nights when he collapsed mid-form, body too exhausted to continue. The system would buzz.
[Hey. You fell asleep in an open stance. If someone walked in, you'd die before blinking.]
"Not helping…"
[Then wake up and fix your elbow.]
He did exactly what the system had told him. For two weeks, maybe more, time simply melted away. He now stood taller, moved cleaner, and the blade in his hands no longer shook.
One day, he found a folded yukata in one of the side drawers. Black and blue, just like the one the swordsman wore, cane then decided to put on the yukata.
He washed his hair, combed it, and let it fall naturally, parted down the middle. He dressed with care, fastening his katana at his side.
Then, barefoot, he walked across the mat to the center of the dojo. The swordsman was still there, sitting patiently beneath the tattered banner.
Resolve.
Cane knelt and set his blade gently in front of him. He bowed low, his hands on the floor, and the fabric rustled softly as he straightened. He said nothing, but in the stillness of that moment, everything was understood.
In response, the man across from him stood.