The clock glowed faintly in the dark, its hands ticking like a slow drum. It's already this late… I should probably go to bed.
I leaned back, saving the game one last time. "Yosh… that should do it," I muttered, rubbing my eyes. Characters' stats—maxed out. A yawn ripped through me. I'll just need to cheat the gold tomorrow.
The hum of the PC faded as I shut it down. I slid under the covers, the familiar weight barely comforting my restless mind. Another unproductive day… My chest felt oddly tight. I've been feeling weird lately… is it my heart? Sometimes it's hard to breathe…
My eyelids fluttered, heavy, like film frames skipping in slow motion. The darkness seeped in. Ahh… so sleepy…
And then sleep came, dragging me toward nothingness.
A light cut through my eyelids, sharp and almost blinding. I squinted, raising a shaky hand to shield my eyes. Is it… morning already? My voice sounded hoarse in the quiet, strange to my own ears.
I blinked again, letting the light settle. The room—or whatever this place was—didn't look familiar. Wait… this isn't my room? Am I dreaming? The thought felt absurd, yet the landscape before me was undeniably real.
Rolling hills stretched into the distance, mist curling over forests, sunlight scattering like shards of glass across the valleys. My chest tightened, a knot of awe and disbelief.
I leaned back against a tree, letting my eyes roam over the impossibly alive scenery. The world breathed around me, the gentle sway of grass and leaves punctuating the stillness.
Pulling my gaze back to myself, I looked down. Hands… arms… everything was unfamiliar. The clothes I wore were sturdy, stitched in fabrics I'd only ever seen in historical games.
Beside me, a sheathed wakizashi rested in the grass. I picked it up, feeling the cold steel hum faintly against my palm, its balance perfect. I raised it, sunlight glinting along the blade.
A thought flickered, confused and curious as I saw my reflection in the blade. Is this… supposed to be me? I feel like a game character. What a weird dream.
But then again… I often dream of my games, especially after late-night sessions… but this… this is too real, too vivid.
I pinched my cheek. Sharp pain shot through it. Huh… it hurts. So maybe this isn't a dream…
A scream pierced the still morning air, sharp and desperate. My thoughts froze, then my legs took over. Without thinking, I ran toward the sound, muscles moving on instinct.
I skidded to a stop behind a thick tree, leaves brushing my face. Through the gaps, I saw it — and my stomach turned.
An elderly man knelt beside a young, wounded man, hands trembling, eyes wide with desperation. Three rough-looking men hovered nearby, one gripping a woman, their laughter cruel and sharp. The old man begged, voice breaking like dry twigs, while the woman's eyes darted frantically, fear shimmering in every glance.
The men's armor and worn gear marked them as soldiers… or maybe bandits. The others, clad in simple, faded kimonos, trembled like leaves in the wind — they looked like Japanese peasants caught in a storm they couldn't escape.
Suddenly, one of the men yanked at the woman's clothing, tearing it with a sickening sound. Another scream erupted, high and desperate. The old man flinched, raising his hands as if he could physically block the attack.
A sharp, involuntary sound escaped my lips. "Nooo!" I yanked my hand over my mouth, heart hammering as if it might burst.
Every instinct screamed at me to act — move, fight, do something. But my body refused. Feet planted. Muscles locked. Fear coiled tight around my spine, a living thing, holding me hostage.
I scanned the clearing, desperate for someone—anyone—who could help.
Nothing. Not a single soul. Only them, only me, stretching as far as my eyes could reach.
My gaze fell to the sword in my hand. The cold steel hummed faintly against my palm as I gripped it tighter.
Conflicting thoughts swirled in my head. I'm the only one who can do anything…
I stole another glance at the horrific scene. The woman trembling, the old man pleading, the young man bleeding slowly… and the three men laughing like predators.
I ducked behind my hiding spot again, throat dry, cold sweat sliding down my spine. My mind raced. I can't just watch… but… what can I do?
Then it hit me. This is a dream.
I remembered reading about lucid dreaming—how you could control the dream if you realized you were in it.
Steel replaced fear. If this were my dream world, then I could bend it to my will.
I planted my feet, bracing myself, muscles coiling. The sword at my side felt like an extension of my arm, solid and true.
I sprang from hiding, voice tearing through the morning air:
"You vermin!"
Heads snapped toward me, laughter cutting off like a broken tape. The world held its breath.
My feet trembled, but I forced them forward. Each step felt loud in my skull. Their eyes snapped to me—cold, curious—but there was no real wariness, only amusement.
Instinct told me to stop at a certain invisible line: close enough to threaten, far enough not to invite a strike. For a second, I saw it—an outline in the dirt like a pale circle the world had drawn. Was it my instinct? A trick of light? My imagination? I didn't know. I only knew the urge not to cross it.
The nearest man slung his sword over his shoulder like a rotten log and grinned. "Oya oya — what do we have here? Lost, kid? This isn't a playground. Go home." His comrades laughed, the sound coarse and easy.
I flinched, just a fraction, and swallowed it back. My eyes flicked to the old man. He wasn't begging me—his face read like a father watching a son walk into danger: a mix of fear and a strange, reluctant hope. If it were my father's face, I'd know that look.
The woman pressed the torn cloth to her chest, shaking. She met my gaze for a heartbeat—pleading, ashamed, asking without words.
I set my jaw and forced my voice steady. "Let them go." No shout. No bravado—just words, the kind you say when there's nothing left but a choice.
His grin skittered, then folded into confusion. "Huh? Let them go? Am I hearing you right?"
"You heard right," I said, every muscle locked so fear wouldn't show.
He flicked his head toward his friends, and they barked another round of laughter—predators congratulating a bold pup. Then his face hardened. Mockery curdled into threat. "Or what, kid? You gonna fight us to save them?"
His tone dropped; menace settled into the clearing like a cold fog. For a single breath, the world narrowed: my sword, his eyes, the old man, the woman—decision hanging between us like a held blade.
He sneered, "Go home before it's too late. This is not a place for kids to play hero."
He took a step toward the old man—just a few meters. Instinct kicked like a live wire. My hand flashed to the hilt; the blade slid free and leveled at his throat before I'd finished thinking.
He froze, disbelief carved across his face. The two behind him chuckled, tossing barbs—not at me, but at their mate. Their words jabbed at him, prodding that ugly animal pride.
"Ho. Look at those eyes. If glares could kill, I'd be dead by now," he sneered, trying to close the gap.
I adjusted my stance, feet finding purchase in the dirt. Eyes locked on his, watching the tiny micro-movements—the twitch of a shoulder, the way his weight shifted. He spat another taunt, but I gave him nothing. Just steel and silence.
The laughter from his comrades sharpened like flint. I felt it push at him, and his face darkened—amusement curdling into anger.
Then, without warning, he swung. Wide, brutal arc. My body moved for me: a duck, a breath, the blade singing past my ear. The wind from the swing slapped a leaf into my cheek. I surprised myself more than the attack—how clean and immediate my reflexes were.
He floundered, cheeks burning with embarrassment as his friends laughed. Spitting at the ground, he snarled, "I'll make you regret this, kid," and launched again, desperate to restore pride.
Left. Right. Overhead. He poured everything into those swings—force over form. And though the world shrank to the squeal of metal and my pulse, something odd happened: time softened. His strikes unfolded like frames in slow motion. I saw not chaos but pattern—each opening, each off-balance moment, laid bare.
I parried, slid, and sidestepped. His blade found nothing. Brutal strength met a wall of rhythm; the attacks were messy, clumsy, like a novice smashing at a master's shadow. My thoughts were a strange mix of awe and cold bookkeeping: untrained, brute force, openings, and exploit.
Then my vision snagged on the wounded man on the ground—blood dark as old rust seeping into the grass. The fog in my head snapped clear. If he dies, I failed. The clarity hit like a bell: end this. Now.
In that instant, the world simplified: him, me, the dying man. I told myself it was a lucid dream—this is my world, I can control it—and that belief steeled my hands.
He raised his sword for an overhead swing. I met it with the lightest contact—tap of blade against blade—and felt his balance shatter. He teetered.
I didn't hesitate. The hilt of my sword dug into the base of his throat—short, brutal, precise. A gag choked out of him; his fingers scrabbled uselessly at his neck. He dropped the sword as instinct took him, clutching air.
I followed with a clean palm strike to the chin. His head snapped back; his knees folded like a rag. He crumpled, unconscious, before he hit the dirt.
Silence collapsed over the clearing. The two remaining men blinked, the laughter strangled out of them as if someone had cut a rope. Shock softened their bravado into thin, stunned breathing. Even the old man and the woman stared at me like they'd glimpsed some impossible thing.
After a tense pause, the two men snapped out of their shock. One's eyes narrowed as he realized I wasn't ordinary. In a sudden, desperate move, he lunged for the woman — probably planning to use her as a hostage, a human shield.
My body moved before my mind caught up. I hurled my sword straight at him. The blade sank deep into his back with a wet, final sound. A ragged groan escaped his lips as he crumpled to the ground.
The second man whirled to see his comrade fall, momentarily frozen in disbelief. In that fraction of a second, I surged forward, sprinting at full speed. My feet barely touched the grass as I closed the gap between us.
By the time he snapped back and fumbled for his sword, it was already too late. I was in front of him, stance perfect, muscles coiled, elbow aimed like instinct.
I struck first — my elbow slammed into his solar plexus. Leather armor protested, but the force pushed through. He gasped, staggering backward, eyes wide.
I didn't pause. Another elbow drove upward, hitting his chin with blunt precision. His knees gave out, head snapping back, and he collapsed, unconscious, before he hit the dirt.
Silence returned, heavy and taut, broken only by shallow, panicked breaths. My sword was in my hand again, slick with the proof of action, my heart hammering. If this is a dream… then this is my world.
I turned to the woman. "Are you… okay?" My voice was steady, but my pulse still hammered in my ears.
She only nodded, trembling slightly, eyes wide but grateful.
I didn't linger. My feet carried me to the old man and the wounded young man. Kneeling beside him, I pressed two fingers to his neck. Pulse. Weak, but alive. Relief flashed briefly through me.
"Is there a hospital nearby? A doctor?" I asked with urgency.
Confusion flickered across the old man's face. I rephrased, more carefully this time: "Any healer… or herbalist?"
"No," he said finally, voice heavy with resignation. "Our village has no healer. But the temple… There is a monk trained in herbs and medicine. We rely on them for the well-being of the villagers."
Good enough. "Can you lead the way?" I asked, voice firm but calm.
He nodded and signaled the woman to move along. She hesitated, eyes flicking to the unconscious bandits. "What about them?" she whispered.
"They are not important now," he said softly, but firmly. "We must hurry."
I hoisted the young man onto my back, adjusting the weight. "Hang on, buddy," I muttered under my breath. "Don't die on me now."
Every step counted as we wove through the forest paths. The fight was over, but danger lingered like smoke. Time wasn't on our side. Every second mattered.