The sword was once just a tool. A tool in the hands of a skilled assassin, devoid of emotion or will. Sharp edges, a simple metal hilt, and a wooden sheath that covered it. It was no different from the other weapons used by assassins to carry out their dirty missions. The sword was just another part of a long line of tools owned by professional killers, a dirty means to fulfill their orders.
For years, the sword had been used for killing, regardless of the target. It passed through bodies as if it were slicing through butter, cutting flesh and tearing bone. It never mattered who the victim was. It was merely a tool that did not think or feel. Over time, the sword became accustomed to the hands of assassins who didn't care about what they killed, as long as the mission was completed. Their goal was always the same: blood.
But everything changed that day. On a different day, for a different mission.
The assassin was summoned by a mysterious group, and their order was strange. These people hid in the shadows, revealing no faces or features. Only their cold voices filled the air, without a hint of mercy. Their task was to kill a man, but this man was unlike all the others they had been sent to kill before. This man was known for his kindness, especially after the war. He dedicated his life to helping the poor and worked tirelessly to rebuild the broken society left in the war's wake.
"An angel," many people called him. He rebuilt impoverished neighborhoods, provided food and clothing, and taught the children. This man had become a symbol of hope. But none of that meant anything to the sword. To the sword, people and intentions were irrelevant. The only task was to carry out the mission, and soon, the sword would be buried in the body of this man.
That night, the assassin approached his target. The house the man lived in was not extravagant or luxurious. It was very modest. But to the people in the poor neighborhood, it shone with light and hope. The celebration he hosted was a reward for both himself and the community for the change he had brought to their lives.
The assassin entered the house quietly, blending with the crowd. He observed from a distance, analyzing every movement and every word exchanged among the guests, all talking about the man who had become the center of admiration. They spoke of hope, of how this man had changed their lives through his sincere actions.
But the assassin felt something strange. He hadn't expected to feel anything, but he did. He tried to analyze this sensation—was it pity? Or perhaps hesitation? He didn't know. But this man, who seemed so noble in the eyes of others, was unlike any other target.
The assassin began to feel something different inside himself. Perhaps it was noticing how everyone adored this man, but in the end, his mission remained unchanged. He continued to move through the crowd, following the man's every step. When the man finally retired to his private room after the party, the assassin began to sneak behind him.
Everything was proceeding as expected. The assassin approached the bed where the man lay, exhausted from a long day spent working with the community. Darkness had begun to fall, and the assassin's eyes gleamed with excitement—perhaps even madness. His hand moved quickly, and the blade flashed with a cold light, reflecting off his face, which now appeared almost inhuman. His eyes shone with a blue, misty glow, much like the gleam of the sword.
He was about to strike when something unexpected happened.
As he raised the sword to strike, something strange occurred. Suddenly, the sound around him vanished, and an eerie silence filled the air. The sword felt unnaturally heavy, a sensation he wasn't used to. It seemed as though the sword's weight had increased drastically, and it trembled violently.
A strange black mist enveloped the sword, swallowing it whole. In the pitch-black darkness and stillness of the room, a brilliant blue light flashed, moving at an incredible speed, leaving behind a trail of blurry images—images of trees, buildings, a city, a continent. A vision of the entire world.
He floated high in the sky, above the world, and somehow, he seemed to not belong there—like something foreign, an intruder.
He plummeted from the sky, crashing through the clouds, tearing through the air, and in an instant, he pierced through a large house, heading toward a room at the top, where he struck the body of a sleeping boy.
The boy opened his eyes in the dark room he didn't recognize, finding himself lying on a large bed. He felt something strange in his body, a complete lack of control, as though he were trapped inside a body he couldn't command. There was an odd sensation in his head as his mind merged with unfamiliar memories. Memories began to flood in, like blurry, colorful images. He saw a family surrounding a boy—his parents, his friends, and everything the boy had lived through at the age of eighteen.
His breath quickened, and he tried to stand. His hands moved slowly, his fingertips brushing against the unfamiliar sensation of the air. His body moved, though awkwardly. He tried to rise, but fell back on the bed. It was like a child learning to walk for the first time.
At that moment, a shadowy figure entered the room, its shape undefined, shrouded in a strange aura. A deep voice filled the space.
"Congratulations on your successful arrival," the voice said in a cold, steady tone. "How does it feel? What do you think of the texture of things for the first time? Do you feel excitement? Or should I ask, do you even know what excitement is now?"
The boy didn't respond immediately. He was still in shock. He couldn't grasp what was happening around him. His body felt strange, and his mind was overwhelmed by the clash of conflicting memories and emotions. He tried to focus, but couldn't.
The dark figure spoke again. "You're in a new body now. You're no longer just a tool. You're a person now. But this person, this body, will grant you the power you need to finish what you started."
The figure smiled, though the smile was cold and void of any real emotion. "Time is ticking now. The bullet has left the gun. You're in a race against time. Don't ask too many questions now, but remember this—there are three things I want from you. Only three small tasks, and after that, you'll live as you wish."
The boy looked at the figure, confused, his mind unable to comprehend what was happening. He wasn't prepared for any of this and felt as though something heavy was squeezing his heart. But there was something else, a strange sense of transformation, as if this new body was screaming, growling—something deep inside rejected this situation.
The figure gestured with its hand, saying, "Take your time to adjust, but don't waste too much. When you're ready, we'll begin."
Once the figure finished speaking, it disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared.
As the figure vanished, the boy was left alone in the room. He was still in shock, but he also felt something else—something strange but powerful. He now had a second chance, a new life.
"If you want to stay, you'll need to be smart," the figure's voice echoed from afar, ringing in his ears. "Don't step out of the boy's character. Don't draw attention. Here, in this body, you can start over, but you must be careful."
These were the first words of warning from the figure, and they carried real weight. They hinted at much more, though it could have said more, but the boy understood that speaking now would be of no use.
The boy didn't know what awaited him in the future, but he knew one thing: his life would never be the same. His past life, as a killing tool, was over. Now, a new chapter had begun.
At first, he couldn't believe what had happened. How had the sword turned into a human body? How was he now a person with emotions, senses, and new goals? But gradually, he started to accept the truth. He had to start from here and build a new life, with new hands, in a world filled with both opportunities and threats.
But this transformation wasn't just the beginning of a new life—it was the beginning of a long struggle with himself and the world around him.