The sun had begun to set as Kazuki and Jiro walked away from the battlefield. The distant cries of battle faded into an eerie silence, replaced by the rustling of leaves in the wind. Kazuki's heart was still racing, his mind struggling to process everything that had happened. He glanced at Jiro, who marched ahead with a calm, steady pace, his expression as unreadable as ever.
"Where are we going?" Kazuki asked, trying to keep his voice steady.
"To a place where you won't get yourself killed," Jiro replied without turning around. "You need to understand the world you've been thrust into. The sooner you do, the better your chances of surviving."
Kazuki wanted to ask more questions—about the time period, about the sword, about how he could possibly return to his own time—but he bit his tongue. For now, he needed to focus on survival. One wrong move in this unfamiliar world could be fatal.
As they walked, Kazuki's eyes scanned the landscape. They were heading toward a small village nestled at the base of a mountain, its wooden houses barely visible in the fading light. Smoke rose from chimneys, and the faint sound of a river could be heard nearby. It was a scene straight out of the history books—primitive, simple, and yet, strangely peaceful.
When they reached the outskirts of the village, Jiro finally slowed his pace. He turned to Kazuki, his eyes studying him carefully.
"You're not from here," Jiro said, his voice low. "You don't move like a man of this era. Your speech, your posture, even the way you hold that sword—it's all wrong."
Kazuki hesitated, unsure of how much to reveal. Would Jiro believe him if he told the truth? That he was from the future, from a world where swords were relics of the past and samurai were nothing more than historical figures?
"I'm... not," Kazuki admitted cautiously. "I come from a different time. I don't know how or why, but I was brought here."
Jiro's eyes narrowed. "A different time?"
Kazuki nodded. "I know it sounds impossible, but it's the truth. One moment I was in the present, and the next, I was here. I don't even know what year this is."
For a long moment, Jiro said nothing. His eyes lingered on Kazuki, as if weighing the truth of his words. Then, without warning, Jiro chuckled softly—a sound that was as unexpected as it was unsettling.
"I've heard stranger things," Jiro said, shaking his head. "In these lands, there are stories of powerful relics, objects that can bend the laws of time and space. Maybe you've encountered one."
Kazuki frowned, looking down at the katana in his hand. Could this sword be the key to his strange journey? Was it responsible for pulling him into this era?
Jiro's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Whatever the reason, it doesn't matter now. You're here, and that means you need to adapt. If you don't, you'll be dead before long."
The samurai gestured for Kazuki to follow as they made their way into the village. The streets were narrow and lined with small, thatched-roof houses. Villagers glanced up from their evening chores, their eyes filled with weariness. It was clear they had seen their fair share of hardship.
They came to a stop in front of a modest wooden house. Jiro pushed the door open and stepped inside, motioning for Kazuki to follow. The interior was simple—wooden floors, a low table, and a small fire pit in the center. Weapons lined the walls—katanas, spears, and bows—all well-maintained, despite their age.
Jiro sat down by the fire, gesturing for Kazuki to do the same.
"Let me explain something to you," Jiro began, his voice low and serious. "You may have the blood of a warrior, but that doesn't make you one. To survive in this era, you need more than just a sword. You need skill, discipline, and the will to fight. Without these things, you'll be nothing more than a man with a blade."
Kazuki listened intently, his mind racing. He had always been fascinated by samurai culture—their code of honor, their martial prowess—but he had never expected to live it firsthand. The idea of becoming a warrior, of fighting with a sword, seemed surreal.
"I can teach you," Jiro continued. "But it will not be easy. You will face death every day. You will be pushed to your limits. And if you fail, there will be no mercy."
Kazuki swallowed hard. The weight of Jiro's words settled heavily on his shoulders. He knew this wasn't a game—this was life or death. If he didn't learn to fight, he wouldn't survive in this world. But if he did... perhaps he could find a way back to his own time.
"I'm ready," Kazuki said, his voice firm.
Jiro nodded, his expression unreadable. "We'll see."
---
The next morning, Kazuki was rudely awakened by the sharp clang of steel. He bolted upright, his hand instinctively reaching for the katana lying beside him. The sound of metal against metal echoed from outside.
"Get up," Jiro's voice called from the doorway. "Your training begins now."
Kazuki groaned, rubbing his eyes as he stumbled out of bed. The early morning light cast long shadows across the village, and the air was crisp with the chill of dawn. Jiro stood in the courtyard, holding a wooden practice sword in one hand and an expectant look on his face.
"We start with the basics," Jiro said, tossing the practice sword to Kazuki. "Form, footwork, balance. Without these, you're nothing."
Kazuki caught the wooden sword clumsily, almost dropping it. He felt a surge of nervousness. Despite his resolve, the idea of learning to fight with a sword felt daunting. But there was no turning back now.
Jiro wasted no time. He demonstrated basic stances—how to hold the sword, how to position his feet, how to maintain balance. Kazuki followed as best he could, but his movements were awkward, his body unaccustomed to the discipline required.
"Too stiff," Jiro barked. "Relax your grip. Flow with the sword, don't fight it."
Kazuki adjusted his stance, trying to mimic Jiro's fluid movements. His muscles ached, and sweat began to bead on his forehead. It was far more physically demanding than he had anticipated.
Hours passed, and Jiro drilled Kazuki relentlessly. Again and again, they repeated the same movements—slashes, blocks, thrusts—until Kazuki's arms felt like lead. His legs trembled with exhaustion, but he pushed through the fatigue, determined to prove himself.
By midday, Kazuki collapsed onto the ground, gasping for breath. His body screamed in protest, every muscle burning with pain.
Jiro stood over him, his expression unreadable. "You've lasted longer than I expected," he said, his tone almost approving. "But this is only the beginning. Tomorrow, we begin sparring."
Kazuki groaned inwardly. If today had been difficult, he couldn't imagine what tomorrow would bring. But despite the pain, a small sense of pride bloomed in his chest. He had survived his first day of training.
As he lay there, staring up at the sky, he realized that this world—though brutal and unforgiving—was beginning to feel real. He didn't know how long he would be stuck here, but one thing was clear: he had no choice but to adapt.
Kazuki closed his eyes, exhaustion pulling him under. Tomorrow, his real test would begin.