That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Samurai — Volume 5: The Rusted Blade and the Road Home
(Or: Even the Patch Gets Tired)
When I opened my eyes, the world wasn't glitching anymore.
No more flickers, no data storms, no neon cherry blossoms. Just morning light and the soft rattle of a cart on a dirt road.
Truck-kun was pulling it.
Yeah. The truck. My ancient nemesis. The destroyer of lives and plotlines.
Now hitched to a wooden cart like an ox, creaking along as though it had always belonged here.
Its engine purred quietly, almost content. The once-metallic grill was now weathered, vines creeping along the fenders.
I sat in the back, armor resting beside me, sword sheathed, the scent of rain still clinging to the air.
"Guess we both got demoted," I muttered.
The truck honked once. Not aggressively. Just… in agreement.
We traveled slowly through the countryside. Villages that once burned now thrived again — rebuilt, humming with laughter and market chatter.
People bowed when I passed. Not because I was the "Glorious Rendered One," or "Patch of the World," or any other grand title.
Just because I had helped rebuild the road once.
Simple respect. Nothing divine about it.
Takeda had stayed behind in the capital to train the next generation. He'd called it "Version 2.0 of Bushido."
I told him that was the dumbest name for a martial school I'd ever heard.
He told me, "You inspired it."
Touché.
By the third village, I realized the sword at my side hadn't glowed once since the last reset.
It was quiet — dull, even. The same way I felt inside.
Every hero arc ends, I guess. Even mine.
At dusk, we reached a hill overlooking rice fields. The truck rolled to a stop beside a lone shrine. Moss-covered, humble, nearly forgotten.
A plaque read:
"In memory of those erased by updates."
I placed my hand on it and whispered, "Sorry."
For the worlds that didn't load. For the versions of me that glitched away.
A soft digital chime echoed in the air.
[Quest Complete: Acceptance]
"Finally," I said, smiling weakly. "A main quest with no boss fight."
Later, under a maple tree, I made a small campfire.
The truck idled nearby, headlights dim like candlelight.
I asked it, "Why me?"
It revved quietly.
"Out of everyone you could've hit — why me? Just some guy late for work."
It beeped twice.
"Oh. So it was random."
Silence. Then, a softer tone. Almost regretful.
"Yeah," I said, leaning back. "Same."
Days passed. We crossed rivers, fields, and towns that blurred into the same gentle rhythm.
I started fixing things — fences, roofs, waterwheels. Small work, no divine glow required.
People stopped calling me "sensei."
They just called me "Kenji."
And I liked that.
The sword at my hip rusted slowly.
I didn't polish it. Didn't need to.
Even a weapon deserves to rest.
One evening, a storm rolled over the horizon.
Lightning flashed. Rain poured.
The truck sputtered and stopped mid-bridge, its engine choking.
I ran to the hood, shouting, "Not now, buddy! We're almost through!"
It groaned, lights flickering.
"Come on!" I slammed the side. "You've survived six reboots and two timelines!"
The lights dimmed. A final beep — long, mournful.
Then silence.
I stood there, soaked through, the rain blending with the sound of the river.
For the first time since dying, I felt something that wasn't confusion or absurdity.
It was grief.
I buried Truck-kun beside the shrine the next morning.
Built a small stone marker.
Engraved one word: "Sorry."
For all the worlds it broke.
And all the ones it carried.
When I finally put the armor back on, it didn't shine anymore. The red had faded, the gold dulled.
But it felt lighter.
I walked the rest of the road on foot.
By the time I reached the capital, the kids Takeda had trained were now men and women.
They bowed. I told them not to.
They ignored me. Heroes never really retire, apparently.
That night, I visited the temple. The stars shimmered — real stars this time, not pixels.
A familiar voice whispered, faint and serene:
"Kenji Sato. Are you… satisfied?"
I smiled. "For once, yeah."
"And what of your destiny?"
"Let someone else beta test it."
The voice paused.
Then — almost amused — said:
"Then your story is complete."
The temple lights flickered once, not as a glitch, but as a farewell.
I left my sword at the altar.
Walked out into dawn.
Somewhere behind me, a faint honk echoed — not real, but memory.
I laughed. "Guess even gods can't patch everything."
And with that, I kept walking.
No respawns. No resets. Just the sound of wind and the promise of another sunrise.
End of Volume 5: That Time I Got Reincarnated as a Samurai — The Rusted Blade and the Road Home
(Next: That Time I Was Finally Just Me.)