The universe is vast—boundless beyond comprehension, indifferent to the tiny flickers of life that rise and fall within it. The giant blue planet called Earth has a boundless history, despite humanity existing for only a short time compared to the planet's billions of years. Yet, in that brief span, humans have made immense progress, surpassing all other native species on this blue world. Humans are creatures of limitless potential, capable of becoming whatever they desire.
They have invented things that defy nature, created cultures and religions, and built civilizations that thrive. They have waged wars, rewritten history, and left behind legacies that endure through time. Some individuals have achieved such greatness that their names transcend the ages, etched forever into the annals of history.
A white sphere of light floats among the sea of stars, closely observing Earth. It has watched this planet for millennia, long before mankind took its first breath, before empires rose and fell, before history was ever written. One day, it will bear witness to the final story—the last chapter of both Earth and humanity.
These beings, known as the Watchers, are entities of pure light, a being without form or desire, created for one purpose: to observe. They are mere spectators, existing solely to observe planets teeming with life. To witness civilizations bloom and wither, to record their triumphs and tragedies, but never to intervene, they follow a single, absolute rule: never interfere with the natural progress of any world. This is the absolute law. The unbreakable rule.
And yet, for the first time in its endless existence, one Watcher feels something. An unfamiliar longing, a hunger to see something greater than mere life and death. Not just the inevitable end of Earth and its people, but humanity at its greatest peak. The slow, predictable march of time no longer fascinates it.
It is the first time in its existence it has ever wanted anything. It desires more. A story that defies fate. It has seen heroes and conquerors rise, but all eventually submit to the same fate—age, weakness, and death. Every legend, no matter how mighty, is swallowed by time.
But what if one could challenge it? For the first time, the Watcher decides to break the one singular rule. It will not simply watch. It will test.
And so, it begins…
…
June 13, 1645, Japan
Deep within secluded forest, the whisper of wind carries through towering trees, rustling their leaves in an eternal symphony. Life thrives despite the lack of large animals in sight. Countless species still exist, waiting to be noticed. Today is particularly beautiful. The warm air carries the perfect temperature for a stroll, and the surroundings shimmer with the vibrant energy of life. The grass continues to grow, the animals sing, and nature's scent fills the air, leaving all who breathe it breathless.
Amidst this pure, undisturbed world, a lone figure walks along a man-made dirt path through the dense greenery. He is a tall, well-built old man, whitish-pink eyes and long hair of the same hue, with prominent undercut. Deep wrinkles mark his face, yet he retains an air of rugged handsomeness despite his old age. He wears a simple kimono of white with pink highlights, and at his waist, a single wakizashi rests in its sheath—ready to be drawn at a moment's notice.
This man was once a renowned deadliest swordsman to have walk this land, a warrior who sought battle to prove himself the best. A man who turned battle into an art. He killed without hesitation, drenching the ground in crimson, carving a legend that would be remembered long after his time. But now, in his twilight years, he has long abandoned violence, devoting himself instead to the creation of art. They say that each stroke of his brush mirrors the deadly precision of his sword.
But his body has failed him. Old age has caught up, and illness weakens his breath with each passing moment. He has come to this forest to draw his final breath, away from the distractions of the outside world. He believes that his sword techniques, passed down to his disciples, will carry on his teachings. With that, he feels no regrets.
After walking for some time, he reaches his destination—a cave, neither too deep nor too shallow, illuminated just enough by the faint light filtering through the trees. The interplay of shadow and foliage creates an almost serene scene.
The old man lifts a massive rock—at least ten times heavier than himself—and places it in the center of the cave. Climbing atop it, he sits cross-legged, clears his mind, and takes several deep breaths.
Then, suddenly—
"AHHHHHHHHHH!"
His sudden shout pierces the air, echoing through the forest. Every living creature within earshot hears the cry of this dying warrior. Then, he immediately erupts into a fit of violent coughing, blood staining his lips, his breath ragged and weak. After breaking down he sobs heavily.
"If only… If only you could just die, you piece of sh*t!" His voice cracks. His body shakes. His tears mix with snot and blood, his dignity shattered by the cruelty of time
His life had been a relentless pursuit of battle, an endless search for excitement. He had never feared death—on the contrary, he had welcomed it. He had sought a glorious demise, to fall at his peak and leave behind a legend.
And yet, here he was.
"I'm too old for this sh*t. Can't believe I'm dying at the same damn age as my lame*ss father…"
For a brief moment, he swears he sees a ghostly figure in the distant sky, flashing a peace sign, laughing at his misery.
He chuckles bitterly.
"Even in death, you still mock me, old sh*t."
The old man exhales deeply, his mind drifting to his younger days—when the thrill of clashing swords drove him forward, when death was always just a breath away. He does not fear dying, nor does he see his life as meaningless. But he wishes he had never grown this old, that he had met his end long before time wore him down.
"The heavens must be playing a joke on me…" He mutters bitterly.
"How cruel, that they won't even grant this old bag of bones his final wish… to die in battle."
With a weary sigh, he finally closes his eyes, surrendering himself to fate. He accepts his end, choosing to let nature take its course. As the weight of his years crushes him, he closes his eyes, accepting his fate.
And then—
A brilliant light floods the cave, its radiance consuming everything in sight. The entire cave is swallowed in pure, dazzling light, nearly engulfing the old man himself.
A white sphere of light floated above the old man. Witnessing something so unprecedented, he briefly believed he had died and ascended to the heavens. However, he quickly composed himself, sensing that he was still within his body. With the many years of experience he had accumulated, he remained calm—like still water—even in the face of such an abnormal phenomenon.
"We are called The Watcher. Our purpose is to observe worlds teeming with life. So be not afraid. I only wish to converse with you—nothing more, nothing less."
An ethereal yet emotionless voice echoed throughout the cave, carrying a soothing tone that instilled an eerie sense of tranquility.
Five minutes had already passed in complete silence, almost caught in a daze. To most, witnessing such a phenomenon would be akin to receiving a divine blessing, as if an angel or even a god had descended before them. But in reality, it was merely an entity that had taken the form of a radiant sphere of light—nothing more, nothing less. The old man hesitated, torn between staying to observe or fleeing. However, his instincts urged him to remain, for he knew this moment would change his life in an unimaginable way.
Stammering "Where are my manners? he says, straightening his back. "I should introduce myself. Can't have great company to keep waiting for!"
Before he could finish, The Watcher interrupted.
"There is no need to waste your precious breath. I already know who you are—the renowned sword master and creator of the Niten Ichi-Ryu sword technique. A famed duelist, victorious in countless battles, never once defeated, and known across the land. You are the great Miyamoto Musashi."
Despite keeping it brief, this thing knew him—truly knew him. Miyamoto Musashi understood the gravity of the situation. Quickly calming himself, he recalled everything that had happened. This strange, shining orb wished to speak with him, and he could guess it wanted something. After all, it had only appeared before him at the moment of his death.
The realization made Miyamoto Musashi break into a sweat—something few could ever make him do. Throughout his countless battles, he had developed an uncanny ability to sense danger. And right now, he could smell it lingering in the air.
Yet, just because he was prepared to die didn't mean he would go easily. After all, he was the very definition of a challenger. He wipes the blood from his lips and leans forward.
"Tell me, Watcher… what do you want?" Miyamoto Musashi asked directly.
"Straight to the point, I see," the orb of light responded. "I ask you—do you have regrets? It doesn't matter how big or small. Just answer honestly."
Miyamoto Musashi quickly considered the question, pondering the reason behind it without any hostility.
"Yes… I do," he answered sincerely.
"May I ask for a reason?"
"Oh, nothing too grand, yet something that might sound crazy to others," Miyamoto Musashi said, a nostalgic glint in his eyes. "You see, I don't want to die in such a pathetic way. I lived in an era of glory, one where legends are forged and tales of great warriors are told. Granted, I never really cared for fame or recognition, but I saw it as something ceremonial. Every warrior I killed left behind a light—satisfaction, yet also regret. The way they died… it left me curious. What would it feel like to experience such a thing myself? Heh, maybe I'm just a demon seeking pleasure in battle."
Miyamoto Musashi spoke with complete honesty, revealing his true feelings without a hint of deceit. Strangely, the orb of light's presence put him at ease, as if its very existence radiated a calming aura.
However, he did not allow himself to lower his guard. No matter how peaceful it seemed, he remained wary—his instincts sharpened, his body ready to move. If danger arose, he was prepared to flee at a moment's notice.
"I see… I understand that feeling," the orb of light admitted. "As I told you, I am merely an observer of this world. I watch, but as time passes, I begin to think about myself as well. I wish to feel. Humanity has fascinated me for a long time. Each individual has a driving force, something unique they bring to the world. If I'm being honest, I am jealous. That is why I have sought something greater than what I have seen before—a will strong enough to move even me."
Inside the cave darkened even more a hint of unbending doom awaits. Hearing this, Miyamoto Musashi felt a sudden unease. Every fiber of his being warned him—if he continued this conversation, his very existence could change in this moment.
Still burdened by worry yet drawn in like an addict to his vice, Miyamoto Musashi answered with solemn respect toward the orb of light.
"And what, oh great observer, do you seek from me?"
"I have created a grand opportunity for those who accept—a chance at another life. You have the right to receive a second chance. Whether to be reborn as another, relive your life, or reincarnate into an entirely different world. If you accept, you must undergo a trial to prove your worth."
A divine, radiant light tore across the sky, accompanied by a thunderous roar. It was as if the heavens themselves seethed with fury, enraged by the blasphemer who dared to defile the very essence of life.
Miyamoto Musashi's weathered face darkened, his eyes widening in shock, almost bulging out from his head, a creeping smile form unnoticed. For the first time in decades, his blood burns with excitement. In ancient tales, the heavens tested mortals through trials, rewarding only the worthy with divine blessings. A second chance at life—such a thing did not come freely. There was always a price.
Having already abandoned any will to flee, Miyamoto Musashi couldn't help but feel a rising anticipation as he eagerly awaited the outcome.
"W-What do you want me to do?" He barely hid the excitement in his voice.
"Simple. Do what you do best—fight and win."
Miyamoto Musashi's eyes gleamed like a predator's, his battle spirit awakening as if it had never left. A wide grin spread across his face as he stepped down from the rock, kneeling before the orb of light, head bowed—not in submission, but a call for challenge.
His body trembled. "I accept! What do you need me to do now?" His voice was so eager, filled with the fire of an unbroken warrior.
"Now, you wait… for the others to arrive."
Miyamoto Musashi's grin widens.
"Good!"