March 5, 2035, Monday—8:07 AM. Tokyo, Japan.
It was a bright morning, the sun casting its golden light across a clear blue sky adorned with fluffy white clouds. Birds fluttered joyfully in the fresh, crisp air. Amidst this serene backdrop, I find myself alone in the familiar solitude of our family dojo, and the rhythmic swing of my wooden sword breaking the stillness.
The air is thick with the scent of sweat and aged wood, a blend of my daily exertion and the weight of tradition. With each swing of my sword, I feel the tension coiled in my muscles—stronger, faster. The repetition is my only escape, the rhythm of the wooden blade carving through the stillness, the only thing that dulls the ache inside me.
I swing harder, faster, my breath quickening as I force myself to forget. Forget the world, forget the pain. I can feel my grip tightening as I push myself further, as though reaching some invisible line where my body and mind can no longer separate.
Then the door creaks open.
My mother steps inside, her presence as graceful as ever.
Aiko Kurogane, known throughout the family for her elegance and quiet strength, moves with the precision of someone who mastered the sword long ago, though she no longer practices.
Her long purple hair, like mine, is tied back into a simple braid that drapes over her shoulder, showing hints of the gray that has begun to creep in over the years. Her striking red eyes—an inherited feature—are soft, but I know they carry the weight of unspoken worry and endless patience.
Despite the years of stress, her posture remains straight, dignified, much like the warriors she has raised.
"Rei," she says gently, her voice a calm reassurance in the silence. "Are you all right?"
I stop mid-swing, the tip of my sword pointing down, and turn toward her. I don't respond. My silence hangs between us, and after a moment, she sighs, understanding. She has always understood. Without another word, she leaves me alone, the door sliding shut behind her. She knows better than to press, to push me into conversations I'm not ready to have.
My mother has always been the quieter presence in my life, yet her strength is undeniable. She bore the burden of my father's intense expectations, standing by his side as both wife and partner, balancing the demands of our family's legacy with the nurturing of her children. It was she who provided the emotional anchor, the balance that we all needed.
I set the sword down beside me and wipe the sweat from my forehead. My body is drenched, but the exhaustion brings a certain peace. Grabbing my water bottle, I take a long drink, feeling the coolness spread through my body. I sit down, letting myself gaze out of the window. The sun is just beginning to climb higher, casting a golden glow across the courtyard.
This is the life I chose. Or rather, the life chosen for me.
My name is Rei Kurogane. I'm 25 years old, the second son of the Kurogane family—a name steeped in tradition and known across Japan for its mastery of Kenjutsu. Our family has upheld the art of the sword for generations, passing down techniques and principles that have shaped our legacy. We have trained warriors, taught honor, and lived by the sword.
I grew up alongside two siblings who embodied the best of our family's heritage. My elder brother, Takeshi, was a prodigy in every sense. He excelled in Kenjutsu, blending ancient techniques with modern innovations, bridging the gap between tradition and technology. Takeshi's brilliance in both realms was a testament to our family's adaptability and vision.
Then there was my younger sister, Ami. Brimming with energy and potential, she was always eager to follow in our footsteps, driven to prove herself in both the martial and modern worlds. Her enthusiasm and ambition were a vibrant reminder of our family's vitality and hope for the future.
Together, we represented the full spectrum of our family's legacy, a legacy now shadowed by the tragedy that befell us.
Five years ago, on January 1, 2030, they both became trapped inside the game Eternal Nexus.
A game that stole more than just their freedom—it took their lives from us.
Their bodies are lying in a hospital bed, connected to machines, kept alive in the real world while their minds are locked in a virtual hell. A hospital run by my uncle, whose son, my cousin, is also trapped in the game.
Fifty thousand players were trapped that day. Now, five years later, only 10,000 remain. Somehow, my siblings are among the lucky ones still alive. For now.
I stand and stretch, feeling the ache in my limbs. The weight of my family's legacy, of Takeshi's brilliance, of Ami's lost potential, presses down on me every day. They were always so enamored with the future, with the possibilities that technology offered.
I, on the other hand, never cared for it. Games, especially, never interested me.
They always seemed pointless—distractions from the real world. What use is a game when it can't strengthen your body or sharpen your mind? What good is it when you could be practicing something real, something that could protect you?
I've never played a single game in my life. Not once. I didn't even own a gaming console. My phone is the only piece of technology I've ever cared about, and that's just for calls, messages, and social media.
I never saw the point in getting lost in a screen when the world is right here, waiting for you to seize it. My father used to say that games were for the weak, that real warriors didn't have time for such things. I believed him. Still do.
But that didn't stop Takeshi. It didn't stop Ami.
As I finish my training, the weight of their choices and their fate bears down on me. I head to the bathroom to wash off the sweat and grime from the morning's exertions.
As the water streams over me, my thoughts drift back to them—five years since I last saw their smiles, heard their voices. Each day, I grapple with the nagging doubt that I might have done something to prevent their entrapment. Maybe if I'd been more present, more engaged, they wouldn't have been drawn into that game.
Afterwards, I finish washing up and change into something more formal. Today is a day like many others—a day to visit them in the hospital, to sit by their bedside and wonder how much longer they can hold on. The doctors don't know. No one knows.
Right after that, I step into the garage and climb onto my motorcycle, a classic 1000cc model that I've maintained over the years. It's old-fashioned, just like me, but it gets the job done.
The engine roars to life, and I pull out onto the streets, heading toward the hospital where my siblings lie in a state of suspended existence.
As I ride, the wind whipping against my face, I can't help but remember the day it all happened. I was at the dojo, training, as usual, when I got the call.
The panic in my mother's voice was something I'll never forget.
She told me about the game, about Kaito Nakamura's sick announcement, about how Takeshi and Ami were trapped. At first, I didn't believe it. How could a game kill someone? How could something like that even be possible?
But then, as the days went by, the news spread. 50,000 players, all trapped. Death in the game meant death in real life. My brother and sister among them.
There was nothing I could do but watch as the world around me crumbled. Families across Japan—and the world—were devastated. And there I was, powerless.
Each visit to the hospital was a heavy ritual, where I sat by their beds, grappling with the stark contrast between their still bodies and the vibrant lives they once led. It was during these visits that the weight of my family's legacy felt the heaviest.
Takeshi's genius and Ami's bright spirit seemed so distant now, trapped in a world that I had never understood. I often wondered if I could have done something differently, if there was any way I could have prevented their fates.
The world outside has moved on, but for me, the pain remains fresh. I squeeze the handlebars tighter, the memory stinging like an open wound. As I approach the hospital, I steel myself for another day of waiting, another day of hoping against hope.
As I pull into the hospital parking lot, I cut the engine and climb off my motorcycle. The familiar dread weighs on me as I make my way toward the entrance, my footsteps echoing in the sterile, echoing hallways.
I pass through the lobby and head toward the reception area where I know I'll find my uncle. There, I found him.
Uncle Hiroshi is a tall man, with graying hair and a lined face that speaks of years of worry and stress. His eyes meet mine as I approach, and he offers a tired smile.
"Rei," he says, his voice carrying a mix of exhaustion and relief. "How are you?"
I nod, trying to mask the turmoil inside me. "I'm doing all right. How are Takeshi and Ami?"
Hiroshi's smile fades, replaced by a somber expression. "We're doing all we can. But... there's something I need to tell you." He looks around, making sure no one else can overhear. "Their condition has been deteriorating. The machines keeping them alive are failing. We've pushed them to their limits, but if the game doesn't end soon, we won't be able to keep them alive much longer."
My heart skips a beat. "What do you mean, failing?"
Hiroshi's face is heavy with sorrow. "The life-support systems are no longer sufficient. They're weakening every day. We've managed to keep them stable for now, but the machines are reaching their limits. I haven't told your parents yet. I thought it would be best if you knew first."
A cold wave of anxiety crashes over me. I struggle to process the gravity of his words. "So... what happens if nothing changes?"
Hiroshi's voice cracks slightly. "If the situation doesn't improve, we could lose them. The only hope we have is that the game ends, but if it doesn't..."
He trails off, the unspoken conclusion hanging in the air. "...I understand," I manage to say, my voice barely above a whisper.
Hiroshi pats my shoulder gently. "I'll leave you to it for now. I need to attend to some other matters. Take care, Rei."
He walks away, leaving me alone in the lobby. The sense of foreboding tightens in my chest as I turn toward the elevator. I make my way to it, feeling the weight of what I've just learned pulling me down. My legs feel heavy as I ride the elevator to the 17th floor, my mind numb with anxiety.
I walk through the hallways, each step echoing in the empty space, and finally arrive at room 85.
I pause for a moment, gathering myself before opening the door.
The room is dimly lit, the atmosphere heavy with a sense of decay and hopelessness. My brother and sister lie on adjacent beds, surrounded by the sterile machinery that keeps them alive. The soft hum of the life-support machines fills the silence.
I walk to a chair by the window, my movements slow and mechanical. I sit down, staring blankly at the lifeless forms of Takeshi and Ami. The room's dead-grey ambiance seems to seep into my soul, reflecting the bleak reality of their condition.
Tears start to fall as I sit there, my emotions finally breaking free. I cover my face with my hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Through my tears, I speak to them, my voice trembling with sorrow.
"Please... finish the game already," I plead. "Just... come back to us. I don't know what else to do. I can't bear seeing you like this."
The words are futile, a desperate cry into the void. The silence of the room is unyielding, echoing the hopelessness that now surrounds me. I continue to cry, my pleas mingling with the soft, mechanical sounds of the life-support machines, my heart breaking with each passing moment.
The tears keep flowing, each one a testament to my helplessness and the weight of my despair. I reach out, resting a trembling hand on Takeshi's bed, then on Ami's, as if hoping that some physical connection might bridge the chasm between their world and mine.
"I'm sorry," I whisper through my sobs. "I'm so sorry I couldn't protect you."
The minutes stretch into an eternity as I sit there, my gaze fixed on my siblings, the weight of the world pressing down on me.
The room's dead-grey ambiance seems to grow darker, reflecting the growing void within me. The life-support machines continue their unrelenting hum, a cruel reminder of the fragile thread by which their lives hang.
Eventually, I manage to calm my breathing, though the anguish remains a gnawing presence.
The realization settles in: if the game does not end, I may soon have to say a final goodbye to my beloved siblings. My resolve hardens, fueled by the pain and the promise I made to myself.