Sword Drinker

It's dark. The kind of darkness that wraps around you, suffocating and endless. I can't see anything—not even the faintest glimmer of light.

Where am I? And... what happened?

Fragments of memory start piecing themselves together. The sharp shout in the alley. The cold pavement pressing against my back. The laughter of those thugs.

Right. That strange voice—talking about... Fiends? Skills? What was it saying?

As the thoughts swirl, I feel something pull me back—like a thread connecting me to who I was. Sensation floods my body, and with it, the clarity of remembrance.

Yuki Yoshimura. Twenty-eight years old. A senior in college. Kendo fanatic.

The scene replays in vivid detail: Hiroshi, cornered in the alley. The fight. The searing pain in my chest as the knife came down.

I remember now. I was saving Hiroshi. And for what? A "friend" who always left me in the dark. Still... I don't regret it…

.

The air is warm and heavy, carrying the faint scent of earth and grass. A gentle breeze brushes against my skin, carrying with it the earthy aroma of damp soil and blooming vegetation. The air smells cleaner, untouched by the smog of the city I left behind. My consciousness stirs, and my eyes flutter open to a ceiling of tree branches swaying gently against a pale sky, their leaves whispering secrets in the wind. The sky feels vast and ancient, painted in hues I never noticed back in the fluorescent glare of Akihabara. This place—raw and untouched—feels like it exists in a time long before mine.

For a moment, everything feels still. Then my body screams in protest—muscles aching, lungs gasping for air. I push myself up, my hands sinking into soft soil. They're small, rough, and calloused in ways they've never been.

What... is this? 

Shouldn't I be dead?

My vision blurs for a moment, then sharpens unnaturally, picking out the fine details of dirt caked beneath my nails. I glance at my reflection in a shallow puddle nearby and freeze.

The chains rattle with every shaky step, their weight digging into my wrists. The cold metal bites into my skin, leaving raw impressions that feel like echoes of a life I didn't live. My breath quickens, my chest tightening—not just from the strain, but from the suffocating sense of being trapped in someone else's nightmare.

The face staring back at me isn't my own. It's a girl—young, with silvery-gray eyes and faint shadows of exhaustion lining her delicate features. Her hair, dark with streaks of ash, clings to her face. My face. "This isn't my body. These aren't my memories. But every time I blink, I feel the weight of chains and the crack of whips. It's suffocating, like drowning in someone else's life."

Memories strike like lightning: chains biting into raw skin, the crack of a whip, the sun burning down mercilessly. A name lingers in the void, heavy with pain—Xuê.

I clutch my knees, trying to drown out the echoes. Her name feels like an unwelcome guest, crowding my thoughts. "I am Yuki Yoshimura," I whisper, as if saying it aloud will make it true. "Twenty-eight years old. Kendo fanatic." But every time I tell myself that, her memories bleed into mine. Every crack of a whip and barked command was as vivid as if I lived them myself. But I didn't. I wouldn't.

Would I?

The memories settle, leaving an ache in my chest that isn't physical. I don't know where Xuê's memories end and my own begins. This can't be real. It's some mistake, some sick joke. The gods said I'd get another chance—but not like this. Not here. "You give me 'skills' and a broken body? Is this how you fix your negligence?!" My voice cracks, and for a moment, the forest answers with nothing but silence. All I know is that this body—her body—is now mine.

I force myself to stand, my legs wobbling as I adjust to the unfamiliar frame. In the distance, voices shout—sharp and commanding, filled with authority. The structure exudes an air of foreboding, its shadow stretching unnaturally long across the landscape as if it seeks to engulf everything in its path.

Even from a distance, I can feel its weight—an oppressive presence that stirs unease deep in my gut. Yet, there's something else, a strange pull I can't explain. It's as if the estate is calling to me, daring me to step closer and unravel its secrets. 

The estate looms on the horizon, its dark towers clawing at the sky. A flicker of memory surfaces—voices murmuring about the estate, the place where chains were forged and lives were stolen. My stomach churns, the unease in my gut growing sharper. What kind of place is this? A shiver runs down my spine, but my feet feel compelled to move forward.

My jaw tightens. The gods called this a second chance. 

"A second chance," I mutter, kicking at the soft soil. "Sure, because what I really wanted was a crash course in suffering." The gods must have a sense of humor—just not a very good one.

The shouting grows louder, each step bringing the voices into sharper focus. My legs tremble beneath me, the unfamiliar weight of chains pulling at my wrists and ankles. I stumble, nearly falling to my knees. I adjust the weight of the chains, forcing my body to stay upright. Kendo taught me one thing: no matter how heavy the opponent's blade, you don't drop your guard. My legs tremble, my muscles scream, but I keep moving. If this is a fight, I refuse to lose.

The gates loom before me—tall and wrought iron, adorned with intricate patterns that twist like thorned vines. Two guards stand watch, their armor gleaming dully in the pale light. Their eyes narrow as I approach, suspicion etched into their features.

"You there!" one of them barks, his hand resting on the hilt of his blade. "What are you doing outside the work zones?"

I freeze, my heart pounding. "I..." My voice catches, unfamiliar and soft. "I got... separated."

The larger guard steps forward, his lip curling into a sneer. A jagged scar runs from his temple to his chin, twisting his face into a permanent grimace. "Separated?" the scarred guard sneered, his voice a low rumble. "You're barely more than a wisp. How'd you even survive out there?" His eyes flicked to his companion, who chuckled, a sharp, hollow sound that grated against the air.

Behind him, the smaller guard chuckled—a high-pitched, mocking sound. His hand shot out, grabbing my arm with surprising strength. "Let's see if you're even marked." His grip was iron, pain flaring through my shoulder as he yanked me closer. The fabric of my sleeve was pulled back roughly, exposing pale, calloused skin. His eyes scanned my arm, and my heart raced. What happens if he doesn't find anything?

His brow furrowed for a moment, then he shoved me back, hard enough that I stumbled.

The scarred guard leaned in, his lip curling. "Lucky you're marked. Otherwise, I'd have made sure your little stroll ended here." His companion snickered, jabbing a finger at my shoulder. The words stung, but I forced myself to keep my head down.

"Move it!" The second guard shoves me forward, and I stagger through the gates. Inside, the estate is no less foreboding. Towering structures of stone and iron rise above, casting long shadows over the cobblestone paths. Slaves move in silence, their heads bowed as they carry out their tasks under the watchful eyes of overseers.

Most of the slaves are demihuman, their features ranging from faintly animalistic to strikingly beast-like. Tall fox-eared men, stout badger-like women, and slender individuals with bird-like features shuffle in silence. 

A few humans are scattered among them, their presence unusual and drawing attention. Demihumans seem to bear the brunt of the harsh labor, their enhanced strength exploited relentlessly by their captors.

My body protests every step, the strain of this frail frame pushing me to my limits. A faint smell of sweat and rust clung to the memory of chains biting into raw skin. Xuê's fear wasn't sharp—it was deep, hollow, the kind that settled in your bones and refused to leave.

I glance around, searching for any sign of familiarity—something to ground me in this strange, oppressive world. But all I see are worn faces, hollow eyes, and the unrelenting rhythm of labor.

A whip cracks nearby, and I flinch instinctively. The sound echoes in my ears, dredging up memories. The weight of chains, the sting of leather against flesh—scenes I've never lived but feel as if I have.

I shake my head, trying to focus. This isn't the time to get lost in someone else's past.

My legs are shaking by the time I reach the group, but I grab a sack and hoist it onto my shoulder. The weight nearly topples me, my knees buckling under the strain. The badger-like woman glanced at me, her scowl deepening. "Weak," she muttered under her breath, loud enough for me to hear. 

The fox-eared man caught her glare, his tail twitching, but said nothing as he shifted his weight to support his load. As I adjusted the sack, the ache in my arms faded faster than it should have. 

My breathing steadied, the burn in my lungs easing. My muscles tensed before I even realized it, the sensation strange yet familiar, as if my body knew danger was near. This body—frail as it seemed—wasn't normal, but I can't afford to question it now. The other slaves glance at me briefly but say nothing. Their silence is unnerving, but I'm grateful they don't draw attention to me.

The fox-eared man stumbles under the weight of a sack, earning a sharp crack of the whip across his back. His ears flatten, but he doesn't cry out—just grits his teeth and keeps moving. The overseer's scowl deepens, his hand itching for another strike. The humans aren't spared from the labor, but their chains are lighter, their punishments less frequent.

The work is grueling. Every step feels like a battle, every breath a struggle. My body isn't ready for this. It's small, weak—nothing like the strength I once knew. But my mind is sharp. I focus on the rhythm of my movements, conserving energy where I can. It's like a kata, I tell myself. Precision over force.

By the time the overseer calls for a break, my body is trembling. I collapse onto the ground, my muscles screaming in protest. Around me, the other slaves sit in silence, their faces blank and their eyes distant. I want to ask them questions, to understand this place, but the words catch in my throat. They look... defeated. And I can't blame them.

As I sit there, trying to catch my breath, Xuê's memories begin to surface, like fragmented reflections in a shattered mirror. Faces flicker in my mind—some blurred, others painfully clear. Most of the people here are nameless to me, their identities swallowed by the monotony of labor and survival. But a few stand out.

The fox-eared man's faint smile flickered in my mind, tinged with exhaustion but still warm. I could feel the rough edge of a broken ration he once shared, the taste of dry bread mingling with the metallic tang of blood.

Xuê's emotions bleed into me as I sort through these fragments. Semi-familiar faces carry feelings of fleeting kindness, indifference, and outright hostility. I clutch my knees, trying to keep the whirlwind of memories from overwhelming me.