In the beginning, I believed the peak of the sword was talent a cruel number etched into existence by the world itself, a rank dictated by an unfeeling system that decided who could dare to dream and who was condemned to mediocrity.
When I was first dragged into that unforgiving realm, the system judged me harshly, bestowing upon me a mere C-rank skill. That was its verdict, cold and final. I did not resist. After all, resistance without power is nothing more than futile noise, a whisper lost in the storm.
Years later, everything changed. I witnessed a man a simple figure, unadorned and unassuming sever an entire mountain with a single, effortless swing.
There was no surge of killing intent radiating from him, no legendary divine weapon gleaming in his grasp, no grand proclamation of unbreakable will echoing through the air.
He wielded only a humble training sword, the kind forged for novices. In that moment, enlightenment struck me like a blade to the heart: the sword does not bow to status or rank, nor does it yield to innate genius.
It responds solely to the state of the mind that wields it the clarity, the resolve, the unspoken harmony between wielder and edge.
From that day forward, I trained relentlessly. Not for the hollow glow of recognition from others.
Not for the bitter fire of revenge against those who had dismissed me. Not even for the raw pursuit of strength itself. No, I trained because, once I had begun, stopping felt utterly unnatural, like denying the very rhythm of my breath.
The years blurred into one another, a ceaseless flow of sweat and steel. Stages of mastery were crossed, one after another, each limit eroding like sand before the tide.
Eventually, I ascended to a realm that existed solely within the mind a vast, ethereal expanse where the boundaries of flesh dissolved.
There, in that inner sanctuary, I perceived the threads: silent, invisible connections weaving through the fabric of existence, binding beings to outcomes they had never chosen, fates imposed without consent.
I did not seek them out; they simply revealed themselves to me, as if my awareness had peeled back the veil. And upon noticing them, an instinctive knowledge bloomed within I knew they could be severed.
Beyond those fragile strands lay something profound, not a tangible goal or a definitive answer, but a direction, an inexorable pull toward the unknown.
I did not comprehend what awaited at its end, yet my body my very soul leaned toward it instinctively, drawn like iron to a magnet.
That was when the truth crystallized: I was no longer chasing the sword. The sword was moving of its own accord, and I was merely following, a shadow trailing its light.
But my body... ah, my body could advance no further. After all, I was still mortal, bound by the frailties of age and flesh.
And yet, even in my twilight years, something stirred within me a burning curiosity, or perhaps a final, desperate wish to cut, to truly see what I had become.
At 92 years old, my frame was a withered husk, riddled with the scars of countless battles and the relentless march of time.
Blood seeped from my pores not because my will was weak, but because this vessel of mine could no longer contain the immensity of what I had grasped.
I gripped my sword tightly, its worn hilt familiar as an old friend, and climbed to the rooftop of my modest house under the cover of a starless night.
The city sprawled below me, a labyrinth of lights and shadows, but in my vision, it was transformed.
Threads of fate, destiny, and intent crisscrossed the skyline like a spider's web, shimmering with ethereal glows binding lovers to heartbreak, warriors to defeat, dreamers to despair.
Activating this ability weighed heavily on both sword and mind, a burden that tore at my insides. Blood trickled from my nose, my eyes, my ears warm rivulets staining my robes, pooling at my feet.
My hands trembled, not from fear, but from the raw strain of channeling such power through failing flesh. I raised the sword high, its blade catching the faint moonlight, and swung with everything I had left.
To the outside world, nothing happened. The city remained silent, oblivious, its inhabitants slumbering in ignorance.
But I could see it the threads snapping one by one, fates unraveling like frayed ropes, destinies severed in a cascade of invisible light. The air hummed with the echo of liberation, a silent symphony only I could hear.
My life ended with that single swing. Pain bloomed in my chest, a final, all-consuming fire, and the world faded to black. This was as far as a mortal could go or so I thought.
But was I hallucinating? The question lingered as my consciousness flickered back to life. I found myself sitting on a bed, old and creaky, its springs groaning under my weight.
The room was dimly lit, cluttered with the relics of a forgotten youth: posters plastered across the walls, depicting powerful rankers from every corner of the world legends with S-rank skills, their poses heroic and untouchable.
My ancient PC hummed softly on the desk, its screen casting a blue glow across the faded carpet.
I stood slowly, my limbs feeling strangely light, unburdened by the aches of age. As I approached the desk, my eyes locked onto the date displayed in the corner of the screen: January 1, 3276.
3276? My heart skipped a beat. That was the year... the day I had first awakened, pulled into the system's grasp.
Was this real? My eyes sparkled with a mix of disbelief and exhilaration, but as I stared, something shifted in my vision. Threads appeared once more, faint at first, then sharpening strings of fate weaving through the room, connecting posters to dreams, the PC to forgotten ambitions.
I reached out instinctively, and the world around me distorted, dissolving into a vast white void. I knew this place instantly: the mind realm, that inner sanctuary I had unlocked only after decades of toil.
"Don't tell me... with this young body, I can activate it already?" My voice echoed in the emptiness, my face twisting in surprise wide eyes, parted lips, a tremor of awe rippling through me.
The realm responded, flooding my senses with clarity, but the power was too much, too soon. After mere seconds, I was yanked back to reality, my nose bleeding profusely, warm crimson dripping onto my shirt.
Blood welled in my eyes, blurring my vision, and a sharp pain lanced through my skull. I staggered, clutching the desk for support, my breath coming in ragged gasps.
Yet, despite the agony, a smile crept across my face slow at first, then widening into a grin of pure, unbridled joy.
"So, you're telling me I time-traveled back to the moment I awakened? And the mind realm is here too? But it seems this body can't handle the full power yet.
" I wiped the blood from my lips with the back of my hand, chuckling softly at the irony. "Pathetic, isn't it? Not that I can blame it after all, it's mine. Weak, unrefined, but full of potential."
I glanced at the clock on the PC; the time had just struck midnight, the new year ticking into existence.
The city outside my window buzzed with distant celebrations fireworks blooming in the sky, cheers echoing faintly. But in that moment, none of it mattered.
My gaze hardened, the sparkle in my eyes turning to steely resolve. Once again, I would chase it the peak of the sword, that elusive direction beyond fate and limits.
This time, with the wisdom of a lifetime etched into my soul, and a body young enough to endure the journey.
The sword was moving, and I would follow further than before.