Vein exhaled, his breath slow and steady.
"Fine," he muttered.
He had no lingering attachments to the past. His history was tangled, his sins too deep.
There was no redemption, no return. Even if this was some elaborate deception, it didn't matter.
He would go along with it.
The floating letters twisted, reforming.
[Would you be willing to sacrifice your innate skill?]
Vein stared at the question.
His [Prideful One]—the very thing that had shaped his life. A talent that had once made him untouchable. A blessing that had turned into a curse.
It had led him to ruin, to arrogance, to blind hatred.
His lips curled into something between a sneer and a smirk.
There was nothing to think about.
"I accept."
The moment the words left his mouth, a shift occurred.
A strange sensation curled in his chest—something foreign, invasive. His body tensed as if something was being pulled from the core of his being.
The weight of [Prideful One] disappeared, vanishing like mist in the wind.
But something else took its place.
It wasn't mana. It wasn't anything he had felt before. It was... stories.
Something vast and unfathomable settled within him.
A great, endless current that whispered in a thousand voices, murmuring of forgotten legends and untold fates.
The letters changed once more.
[You have been granted an Innate Skill.]
[Endless Tales]
The words pulsed, glowing softly in the dim room.
Then, the letters gave one final instruction.
[Close your eyes and focus.]
Vein hesitated, then obeyed.
Darkness.
An abyss, vast and infinite. He floated within it, weightless, formless.
Then—white letters began to descend from the void above.
They flickered and danced, shifting into clear, defined shapes.
Names.
Hundreds.
Thousands. Some familiar, some unknown. They stretched into infinity, each name carrying weight beyond understanding.
Vein's gaze drifted across them. He reached out, hesitant, his fingers brushing against one.
[Miyamoto Musashi.]
The moment he chose, the void collapsed.
***
Vein opened his eyes.
The air smelled of pine and steel. A crisp wind carried the scent of damp earth and fresh rain. Beneath his feet, the ground was soft yet firm, like a well-trodden training ground.
And before him stood a man.
He was taller than Vein expected, his presence imposing yet strangely at ease.
He wore a simple blue-and-white kimono, the fabric loose and worn from travel. Two swords rested at his hip—one long, one short.
His dark hair was unkempt, framing a face marked with sharp confidence and quiet amusement.
His eyes, deep and piercing, studied Vein with interest.
Then, he spoke.
"So, you're the one who called for me."
His voice was smooth yet firm, carrying the weight of a man who had seen countless battles.
Vein stared, momentarily lost for words.
This was real.
"…I didn't call for anyone," Vein finally said.
Musashi raised an eyebrow, then let out a chuckle.
"Oh? Then what brings you here, traveler?"
Vein exhaled.
"I don't know."
"Hah. A man with no purpose? Now, that's rare." Musashi tilted his head, his expression thoughtful.
"Most who seek me do so with ambition. They want strength, guidance, an answer to their endless questions."
Vein remained silent.
He had no ambition. No grand reason. He had nothing left to chase.
Musashi studied him for a moment, then smirked.
"No fire in your heart, no great desire… yet you still reached out."
He turned, stepping forward. His movements were fluid, effortless. The presence of a warrior who had long mastered himself.
"Well," Musashi continued,
"since I'm here, let's test something."
He placed a hand on the hilt of his longer sword, his stance relaxed but charged with intent.
"Draw."
Vein blinked. "…What?"
Musashi grinned.
"A man with no purpose is just waiting for death. Let's see if you really want to live."
He moved.
Vein barely had time to react.
A flash of steel. A step forward—so fast, so precise, that the very air seemed to bend.
Vein's body moved instinctively. He twisted, stepping back, but the tip of
Musashi's sword stopped just inches from his throat.
"Slow,"
Musashi remarked, his tone almost disappointed.
"You didn't even try."
Vein clenched his teeth.
He wasn't a warrior at all. He wasn't anything.
"…Why?" he finally asked.
"Why does it matter?"
Musashi sheathed his sword, his expression unreadable.
"It doesn't."
Vein narrowed his eyes.
"Then—"
"But," Musashi interrupted,
"you chose my name. Out of all those stories, you reached for me."
He stepped forward, his gaze sharp.
"So tell me, Traveler "
He tapped a finger against Vein's chest.
"What is it that you seek?"
The question lingered in the air, heavy with something unspoken.
Vein had no answer.
Vein remained silent.
What did he seek?
Nothing.
For ten years, he had lived without a dream, without ambition. He had no future, no past worth reclaiming.
The warmth of the Hugart family had given him a place to stay, but not a purpose to chase.
He had lost his mana core, his noble status, and his pride.
The world had stripped him of everything, and in return, he had asked for nothing.
What was left?
Musashi, as if sensing his hesitation, let out a sigh and suddenly grinned.
"No answer, huh? That's fine. The sword doesn't need a reason to be drawn—it only needs a hand to wield it."
A shimmer of light.
Vein flinched as something solid formed beside him. A weapon—its blade dull silver, its shape unfamiliar yet fitting in his grasp.
He instinctively took hold of it, feeling its weight settle into his palm.
Musashi's grin widened.
"Good. Now—come at me."
Vein barely had time to react.
A gust of wind rushed past as Musashi closed the distance, his wooden practice sword striking with impossible speed.
Vein's instincts screamed—he lifted his blade to block, but the moment steel met wood, his stance crumbled.
The impact rattled his arms, sending him stumbling back.
Musashi didn't stop.
Another strike. A step forward—seamless, natural.
Vein raised his sword again, but he was too slow. Musashi twisted, his footwork light, and with a single flick of his wrist, his wooden sword smacked Vein across the ribs.
Vein gasped as the force knocked him off balance.
He hit the ground hard, his sword slipping from his fingers.
Silence.
Then—laughter.
Musashi planted his sword into the dirt and let out a hearty chuckle.
"That was awful."
Vein groaned, rubbing his side.
"You've never wielded a sword before, have you?"
Vein scowled.
"I had no reason to."
Vein was a mage after all.
"Ah, now that makes sense." Musashi crossed his arms, amusement dancing in his sharp gaze.
"You handle a sword like a man forced into battle—hesitant, stiff, and terrified of commitment."
Vein clicked his tongue.
"It's my first time."
"All the more reason to learn." Musashi stepped closer, offering a hand.
"Get up."
Vein hesitated, then grabbed Musashi's hand and pulled himself to his feet.
Musashi watched him carefully, then grinned.
"How about this? I'll teach you."
Vein frowned. "Why?"
Musashi tilted his head, as if the question itself was strange.
"Because I want to."
"That's not a reason."
Musashi laughed.
"Isn't it? I've traveled across lands, fought warriors, and sought strong opponents all my life. Teaching is just another form of battle."
Vein remained skeptical.
Musashi studied him for a moment, then added,
"Besides, you have time. A lot of time."
Vein narrowed his eyes.
"What do you mean?"
Musashi smirked.
"Time moves differently here. A year in this place is nothing more than an hour in your world."
Vein froze.
A year was an hour?
Musashi took a step forward.
"So, what do you say? You don't have a reason to fight, but you don't need one. All you need is the will to pick up the sword."
Vein hesitated.
He had no drive, no goal.
But something in him, something small and barely flickering, wanted to see where this path would lead.
"…Fine," he said. "I'll learn."
Musashi grinned.
"Good. Let's begin."