My name is Haruki Amano. I just turned one hundred.
My body was failing. My breath grew shallow, and every joint felt like it was on fire. I knew I didn't have long. And yet... I wasn't afraid.
No regrets—except one.
I spent my life studying the sword. Every technique, every form, every ancient manual. I even created my own personal style. But I never had the chance to test it in true battle. I trained every day, but my life remained... peaceful. Too peaceful. I was a master without a battlefield.
And now I was dying in pain—slow, drawn-out pain that clung to me like a curse. I didn't have the courage to end it myself.
Coward. That's what I called myself in those final moments.
My body trembled, my vision blurred, and then—darkness.
I died.
My story should have ended there.
But fate… had other plans.
I opened my eyes.
I heard voices—low, confused. Footsteps shuffled nearby, steady but unhurried. People were whispering, murmuring to each other in hushed, anxious tones. I stood among them, surrounded by strangers in a vast, otherworldly space. We were in a queue—heading toward a man standing near a glowing waterfall. The air shimmered with something strange... divine.
The man dipped a shining goblet into the flowing water and handed it to each person. They drank—and then pain. I watched them drop to their knees—some screaming, some sobbing, others just shaking, overwhelmed by pain. I didn't understand. Who was I? What was this?
And then—my head throbbed.
A blinding wave of pain struck, and memories surged into me like a flood bursting through a dam.
My name was no longer Haruki Amano. I had been reborn as Renji Takasawa, a sixteen-year-old boy in a world I didn't recognize. A post-apocalyptic world, where civilization had crumbled and only one nation remained—Seivaliria. A tower stood at its center, and here, every sixteen-year-old underwent a ritual to awaken their Path—their latent power.
I was standing in that tower.
"Renji, are you ready?" asked a calm, authoritative voice. I turned to see an instructor—his black uniform lined with silver.
"Yes," I replied, instinctively.
He handed me a golden goblet encrusted with glowing gems. Inside shimmered a liquid that looked like stardust—the night sky itself, liquified. I drank it all in one go.
Nothing happened.
No pain. No visions. Just silence.
Was I... special?
Then, suddenly, it hit.
Agony exploded in my stomach. It felt like I'd been stabbed by an invisible blade. My legs buckled, and for a moment, I thought I'd pass out. But I held on. Gritting my teeth, I forced myself to stand. And just like that—the pain was gone.
"You passed," the instructor said. He handed me a glowing white ticket. "Tear this. It'll transport you to the training camp."
I did.
Light burst around me—bright, searing, and all-consuming.
And suddenly… I was sitting in a classroom.
There were twenty-one other students in the room.
Some sat still, doing nothing—frozen or lost in thought. Others looked around in awe, whispering to one another in hushed voices.
Moments later, the door creaked open.
And she walked in.
White hair like moonlight. Golden eyes that glowed like sunlight. Skin so pale it almost glowed. The room gasped—some in admiration, others in pure excitement.
"Who is she?" I muttered.
And then... a memory returned.
Eighteen-year-old Alisa Sorel was one of only three people in the world to have reached the rank of Saint—a living legend.
She stepped forward, her presence utterly overwhelming.
From the very beginning, she made it clear to us that we must all address her as Captain Alisa.
"I will be your instructor," she announced. "By order of the High Command."
She spoke with the authority of someone who had seen death and survived it. Her words were sharp, focused, and left no room for doubt.
She explained everything—the ranks, the training, the danger.
Humans were divided by power into:
• Normal (before awakening)
• Awakened (the ones who drank the divine liquid — the very thing I and the other sixteen-year-olds consumed).
• Novice
• Advanced
• Enlightened
• Saint
• Transcendent
• Divine
Monsters had their own hierarchy
• Normal (mindless)
• Awakened (primitive intelligence)
• Punishers, Dominants, Royal Class, Overlords, Tyrants, and finally, the Divine Class.
These monsters invaded through dimensional rifts, breaches caused by the overaccumulation of Essence—the core energy of all monsters.
Absorbing essence was how one grew stronger. Either slowly through touch... or instantly, by devouring the monster's core. But the taste—disgusting. It could make you vomit.
She also explained a parallel system: not ranks, but mastery.
From Beginner to Warrior, then Knight, Paladin, Guardian, Swordmaster, and finally, God of the Sword.
She said that if a human and a monster are of the same rank, the monster usually wins. That's why it usually takes two people to defeat one monster.
As she spoke, I couldn't take my eyes off her.
She's perfect, I thought. Not just powerful—balanced. Her posture, her presence. Her body was honed like a blade. She's a living masterpiece.
I felt... admiration? No—obsession. But not romantic. It was the obsession of a swordsman seeing the peak he never reached.
I had spent my life chasing perfection. Now it stood in front of me.
And then—our eyes met.
I froze. She raised a brow. I quickly looked away, pretending to examine her weapon instead. It was a rapier—slim, elegant, deadly.
The sheath was crimson and white. Few could truly master the rapier. It had limitations. Less room for error, less room for brute force.
But she...
She wielded it like it was part of her soul.
I trained with a katana. My entire life, I honed that one blade. And now I needed to find one again—a true katana. Not something "similar."
She finished the briefing and handed each of us a card—our new identification. It recorded our rank, title, mastery level.
"Keep it on you at all times," she warned.
Then she turned to the group.
"Tomorrow begins real training," she said. "Assessment, missions, theory—and battle. Go to your assigned rooms and rest."
I turned to leave—
"Renji. Stay."
I blinked.
Everyone else filed out. The room emptied. She approached me, arms crossed, gaze firm.
"You were staring at me," she said bluntly.
I opened my mouth.
"Is there something that displeases you? Speak honestly."
"No! I mean—it's a misunderstanding," I stammered. "I was... mesmerized. By your presence. Your mastery. Your proportions. Your... um—"
"Proportions?" She smirked.
I blushed. "I don't mean it like that! Your body is balanced. Harmonious. Structurally perfect for combat. It fascinated me. As a fellow swordsman. I analyzed your form and structure, and—"
She burst out laughing. "You analyzed me?"
I nodded awkwardly.
"You're honest. I like that," she said, calming down. "You can drop the formalities. Just call me Alisa."
"But you're ranked higher. Older. Stronger—"
"I hate titles," she said simply. "You made me laugh. That's enough."
I smiled. "Then… Alisa, I'll do my best to prove myself."
"I'm holding you to that," she grinned.
I headed to the dormitory, to Room 22 — my room.
Simple, clean, with all the essentials. Not luxurious, but enough. I showered, grabbed some food from the fridge, and finally lay on the bed.
But I didn't sleep.
Not really.
In my dreams, I trained—each punch, parry, and strike dancing in my subconscious dojo. I devised new techniques, evaded attacks, and countered with surgical precision.
Even back on Earth, when I was over sixty, I practiced in VR simulations. My mind never rested.
I knew the world was cruel. There were geniuses, prodigies, born monsters — beings capable of anything, while all my efforts and hard work seemed like nothing. But I didn't give up.
I had been given a second chance.
And I would rise.
No matter what.