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Earth.
Ryan Walker stepped through the gray vortex and returned to his cheap hotel room. As always, the place had reset itself—clean, tidy, and devoid of any trace of his otherworldly journeys.
More than half a day had passed in the primitive world, but here on Earth, only a few minutes had slipped by.
No matter how many times he crossed between realms, that shifting sense of dislocation left Ryan feeling as though he were wandering through a dream.
He sat down on the edge of the bed and pulled out his wallet. After counting carefully, he grimaced. One hundred twenty-seven dollars and fifty cents…
Not even enough for a halfway-decent replica sword, let alone something like a true flying blade.
Still, Ryan wasn't without options. He fished out the credit card he'd never once used. Its embossed numbers gleamed faintly in the room's dull light.
"Fifteen thousand should be enough," he murmured, tapping the card against his fingers. "Thirty days until repayment. Thirty days here… is nearly a year over there. That's more than enough time to build my first foundation of wealth."
For a moment, a flicker of guilt crossed his face. Then he shook his head. "Wait… what am I even worrying about? I'm a god now. Do I really need to pay back the bank?"
He snorted at himself. A deity worrying about credit ratings was ridiculous. And yet, life forced even gods to compromise.
"Investment first. Returns later. The other world is my foundation—whatever I spend here, it's worth it."
His voice grew stronger, conviction lighting his eyes. "Power. Immortality. Eternal glory. That's what it means to be a god."
The heat of summer pressed down like a furnace when Ryan left a backstreet workshop later that afternoon. In his hand was a long, battered cardboard box. Inside lay three newly-machined swords.
They weren't hand-forged masterpieces, but the price was right—and more importantly, they were sharp enough. Two were carbon steel, the third titanium alloy.
The factory master, an elderly craftsman with steel-gray hair, had eyed Ryan warily.
"Young man," he had said, "don't do anything foolish. These blades are just toys, nothing more. If you lose money, you can earn it back. But if you lose your life, that's the end."
Ryan had smiled, his voice calm. "Don't worry, I won't cause you trouble. I'm just a collector."
He hadn't been lying—at least, not entirely. He had no intention of killing anyone here. Earth's laws didn't apply in the other world, and there, he was already something greater.
From the workshop, Ryan made straight for the largest shopping center in town. "Largest" was generous—it was two stories, a thousand square meters, crammed with local goods and cheap knockoffs.
But for Ryan's purposes, it was perfect.
Snacks filled the first cart—spicy sticks, potato chips, vacuum-packed braised meats. His cheeks burned slightly as he stacked them higher and higher.
For the tribe. Definitely for the tribe… he reassured himself.
Next came practical supplies: rice, flour, oil, salt. Finally, his gaze fell on a massive plastic barrel of cheap white liquor—sixty percent alcohol.
He hesitated, then shrugged. "The taste probably isn't great. But who knows? Maybe it'll be different after soaking in something from the other world."
By the time he returned to the hotel, loaded down with supplies, the receptionist could only stare in bewilderment. Ryan ignored her. He had more important things to do.
Inside his room, he carefully laid out the three swords. They were crude compared to legendary weapons of myth, but the craftsmanship was still impressive.
One in particular, a carbon steel blade modeled after the swords of the Spring and Autumn period, shone faintly under the fluorescent light. Its simple design carried a quiet elegance. The etched patterns along its blade glimmered like starlight.
Ryan's pulse quickened. He wrapped his hand around the hilt and, with a single thought, poured divine power into the weapon.
The sword answered instantly.
A veil of starlight wrapped around the steel. The blade lifted from his hand and, guided by his will, danced through the narrow confines of the room like a living thing.
Each movement traced arcs of silver light, until it seemed as though a fragment of the night sky itself had descended.
"The sword's edge is cold, yet the starlight embraces it…" Ryan whispered. His lips curled into a smile. "Cold Star Sword. That's your name."
The blade quivered as though acknowledging him before sliding back into its sheath—if the battered cardboard box could even be called that.
Ryan's expression darkened. "Damn it. I forgot to ask for a proper scabbard."
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