All the worlds I knew were destroyed.
And it all began on that day…
Since the age of six, I had walked a path meant only for grown men—the path of a hero.
They all wore heavy cloaks, carried massive weapons, and looked upon the world with eyes burdened by weight.
Among the weathered faces and deep voices of the men who accompanied me, only one truly carved himself into my heart: Sir Etgar.
He wasn't just a comrade-in-arms. He was like a second father to me.
His body was broad, his beard thick, his voice thunderous—yet his heart was warm. He would pat my shoulder whenever doubt crept in and guide me with simple words that lingered.
"Being a hero is the hardest duty of all, boy…" he would say while cleaning his blade. "Harder than demon hunters, harder than monster slayers." Then his eyes would lock onto mine. "A hero isn't just about fighting. We unite people, give them hope, lead them, even sacrifice ourselves if we must."
I didn't fully understand back then, but I felt the gravity in his words.
Every time I was wounded in battle, he was the first to come to me with a broad smile. Sometimes he just tied a rough cloth around my injuries while muttering:
> "You must be careful. Remember—a hero's duty isn't only to fight… but to live long enough to protect others."
He'd laugh loudly afterward, ruffling my hair before adding,
"You may be small, but never underestimate yourself. Sometimes the smallest can matter most."
Those words never left me.
Sir Etgar often explained how being a hero was different from adventurers and demon hunters.
"Adventurers are workers. They're paid for their missions.
Demon hunters are warriors, staking their lives on the frontlines every day.
But heroes… heroes are symbols. Hope itself. People will pin their dreams on you, boy. And that is the heaviest burden of all."
I was only a child, yet I could feel how serious he was. His words pressed down on my shoulders—heavy, yet warm. As if he truly believed I could bear it.
Beyond my duties, I still had a home.
My father was a renowned blacksmith. His hands were always darkened by soot, yet behind that roughness, he was a man of laughter. Sometimes he teased my mother during dinner, and I would laugh at their playful banter.
My mother… just a simple housewife. But she was the one who worried most whenever I left on missions.
> "He's still a child, dear! Far too young for this!"
I often overheard her arguing with my father about me. But he always reassured her:
"Trust me. Our son is different. He can change the world."
It was my parents who first realized I was no ordinary child. My father once told me how, when I had just learned to walk, I unknowingly lifted a stack of swords he'd forged—hundreds of kilos in weight. His expression then, he said, was a mix of panic, shock, and pride. He always retold that story to Sir Etgar. At first, Sir Etgar didn't believe him—but after seeing me with his own eyes, he muttered:
> "This child… is no ordinary boy."
That was why I was raised as a hero so young.
They also liked to remind me that I had chosen my own name. As a baby, I would babble, "Ge… shi… Gen-ki… gensh… kiii…" until they finally set it as my name. A name born from my own tiny voice.
I remember clearly: at six years old, my mother cried bitterly at having to let me join the battlefield. "He's still a child," she whispered, clinging to me. But father soothed her: "Our son will change the world." Somehow, those words calmed her trembling heart.
Those days were long, yet full of color.
I, a mere six-year-old, walked among grown men. My sword looked tiny beside theirs, but somehow, everyone gazed at me with awe.
Our team had five members.
Sir Etgar, our irreplaceable shield, always stood at the front.
A kindhearted healer, her voice as soothing as a mother's.
Two other warriors, not too close to me, yet they treated me with respect.
And me… the little boy somehow called a "hero."
The healer often kept me company. When we rested after battles, she liked to tell strange stories.
"If you choose white, everyone will see you clearly. But if you choose black, you can walk unnoticed. Which one would you rather be, Genshiki?"
I didn't understand her meaning back then, but her smile always calmed me. To me, she was warmth and comfort. When free, she sometimes walked me home. Sometimes she even dined with us—father often awkward in her presence, avoiding her beauty for fear mother would misunderstand. I used to giggle at the sight.
Those days… though harsh, felt like I had a second family. Some to shield me, some to guide me, some to care for me.
But slowly, I began to notice…
Every time I returned home from a mission, my mother's eyes were swollen from crying.
She always waited at the front with father, her gaze clinging to me as if to make sure I was whole. Father patted my shoulder with pride, but I knew—he shared the same fear.
Since then, whenever I came home at dusk, they would be waiting. Father would chuckle, "Your mother worried again," before adding, "but I managed to convince her."
They were proud… yet terrified of losing me.
Everything felt safe… until that day came.
The day I returned from a mission with the team.
My steps were light as I walked down the village road. The evening air was warm, children ran laughing, and the smell of fresh bread from the houses made me hungry. I couldn't wait to be home—to see mother, hear father's voice, eat together once more.
Sir Etgar walked beside me, patting my shoulder with a tired smile.
"Boy, be careful, alright? I can't walk you home this time. My wife's giving birth," he said with a hearty laugh, though his eyes looked weary.
I only nodded. "Yes, Sir Etgar."
The healer turned to me as well, her gentle smile as soft as ever.
"Then I'll walk Genshiki home instead. Think of it as a little visit."
Sir Etgar agreed. I never thought… those would be her last words to me that day.
We walked together, and I ran ahead, eager and lighthearted.
But when I reached the yard of my home… my world collapsed.
Father.
His body lay in front of the house, drenched in blood.
My hands shook as I fell to my knees, clutching him, praying for a breath, praying it was only a dream. But the coldness of his body was more honest than my desperate hopes.
"Father…" My voice broke. My young heart could not comprehend the truth.
My hands trembled harder. Mother. She wasn't there.
I screamed, frantic: "Mother! Where are you!?"
I burst inside—checked the bedroom, the kitchen—empty. Then I rushed to the backyard.
And there… I saw it.
The sight forever burned into me.
Mother, a demon's blade piercing her chest.
Her eyes still sought me, full of love even as her life slipped away. With her last breath, she whispered, voice weak yet clear:
"Forgive me, my son… I can't stay by your side longer… But remember… you are our light… Keep shining…"
Her eyelids closed, slowly.
"Mother…" my voice broke. My chest felt hollow, then turned into a scream of rage.
The demon turned toward me, its crimson eyes flashing, and in an instant swung its claw at me.
But a body shoved me aside. A demon slayer blocked the attack—only to receive a fatal stab in his chest. Blood gushed from his mouth, but he still whispered faintly,
"Run… you must run…"
And the next moment, his head was severed by the demon's blade.
I froze. The world collapsed again and again.
Then, through the blur of my tear-filled vision, I saw the healer woman—she came running from the village road, panic on her face as she saw my house under attack.
"GENSHIKI!!!" she shouted.
She instantly cast a protective spell around me, the white light barely holding back one demon's strike. But her own body became the target of another demon there. Black claws pierced her stomach. Blood poured, soaking her gown.
With ragged breaths, she managed a smile, the same gentle smile she always showed whenever she healed me. As if she wanted to say something. Her lips trembled, but no words came.
Then slowly her body collapsed to the ground, her protective light fading with her.
I screamed again, louder than before.
Grief, rage, and faint memories of my life on Earth—all tangled into one.
"STOP!!!" I roared, my small voice trembling with emotions I didn't even recognize.
Something shattered inside me.
With bare hands, I began slaughtering them. One, two, five, ten… more than fifty demons fell before me. I no longer felt pain, only the fury consuming everything.
Every strike, every tear, as if the universe itself was rejecting my happiness.
When the last one fell, I seized a sword from the demon slayer who had saved me.
With that blade, I stabbed the final demon, staring into its eyes until they went blank.
And somehow—I saw something. A flash of foreign knowledge stabbing into my mind.
I knew… where they came from.
"I didn't know what was happening. But at that moment, I felt… this world was not the only one. And I was right."
As the sword pierced the last demon, something inside me broke.
Dark cracks split open in the air, as though the world itself could not contain my existence. In an instant, light and darkness merged…
Blood still dripped from my hand as I stepped toward the gate that had opened in the air. The dark fracture pulled me in, and there I saw—
Two colossal guardians, fifteen meters tall, their crossed spears blocking me.
I said nothing. I only raised my hand, and magic burst from above. Both guardians collapsed like wooden dolls, and my gaze fell forward.
Beyond them stretched the army of demons—hundreds of thousands in the center, tens of thousands to the left and right. Their average height was two meters, their faces grotesque, fangs long, eyes wild. They signaled each other that an intruder had come.
I gripped the sword tightly. My eyes were empty. My heart carried only one thing: slaughter.
I stepped into the sea of demons. Their forms meant nothing to me. One swing of the sword—and dozens of heads flew. Black blood splattered across my face, but I didn't care.
But their numbers were endless waves. The sword in my hand cracked, then broke.
I stood silent for a moment, then opened my mouth.
The incantation flowed on its own, never learned, but pouring from deep within my soul. Magic light wrapped around me—and in an instant, hundreds of demons vanished soundlessly, erased from existence.
I stepped forward and kept marching. A towering gate loomed ahead, thirty-five meters high, carved from black stone with glowing red etchings. I pushed it open, and the stench of rot welcomed me.
Inside stretched a grand yet sinister hall. The demon elites stood tall, their servants crouched on the floor, afraid to even breathe. And on the throne at the far end sat the figure I could never mistake: the Demon King.
Twenty meters tall, his body a living fortress. Dark aura flowed heavily from him, crushing my chest. He stared at me, and his deep voice echoed throughout the hall.
"Why is there a human here…?"
I didn't answer. I only laughed—loud and foreign, even to my own ears. The demon elites trembled in shock, and for the first time, the Demon King rose from his seat. His steps shook the castle. The servants fainted from fear.
I raised my hand.
My own magic appeared—an alien energy, denser, sharper than any sword. It felt like stepping on ants in the street.
And before that power, the Demon King's body—once feared, revered, worshipped—crumbled into dust.
Silence enveloped the hall.
Then, from the Demon King's ashes, a pitch-black light emerged. The light condensed, forming a sword. Slowly, it shrank to match my size. My hand reached out, gripping it. Dark aura coiled around it, cold, yet… it felt right.
I slid the sword into the Void Sheath, a hollow scabbard only I could open. And I knew, this was the power I had claimed in this dimension.
I kept moving forward.
Now… if I wished, I only needed to move my right hand. The fracture of magic would open, the hilt would emerge, and with a single draw—the weapon would be mine.
I began traveling across dimensions to defeat Demon Kings, even beyond the outer realms, each dimension vast as ten multiverses, each step spanning a million light years of my first world.
I crossed dimension after dimension.
One by one, Demon Kings fell before me.
Out of dozens of Demon Kings, I gained only seven swords, each carrying a different aura and whispering darkness I had to silence.
Those swords… seven blades I hid in the Void Sheath, resting quietly in nothingness. Only I could summon them, only I knew the weight they carried.
Sometimes, when my fingers nearly touched their hilts, I heard the whispers. Foreign voices creeping into my mind, murmuring rage, power, or temptation to destroy everything. But I always closed my inner ears. I knew if I gave in, I would become the same as the demons I butchered.
I walked through endless time, but one thing never changed: the wound in my heart.
Both before I came here, and back on Earth.
Everything was etched into me, never fading, clearer than sunlight.
And every time I remembered, I realized: I could never go back to being the Genshiki people knew at school on Earth, nor the innocent child I once was here.
The world demanded me to be its hope, even while my heart lay in shards.
I often asked myself, was this fate? Or just the universe's cruel coincidence?
But then, the voices of those who once advised me echoed in my head.
Maybe… I truly had no choice. I had to keep moving forward.
Not because I wanted to… but because if I stopped, everyone who died for me would have died in vain.
So, I stand here, with hands once drenched in blood, with eyes that once gazed into the deepest darkness, and with a heart still learning not to drown.
I fell silent.
Both hands gripping the window frame, my hollow eyes staring at the starry sky. All those memories—blood, screams, their faces, their smiles—still spinning in my mind, as vivid as if it were yesterday.
The night wind drifted through the open window. Cold air touched my face, pulling me back to who I was now.
My chest felt tight.
Not because I was still crying… but because I could no longer cry.
My tears were buried with them.
All that remained was emptiness.
Emptiness clinging to my heart, no matter how much time passed.
I took a deep breath.
My hand slowly lifted to the side.
A faint magical crack opened, glowing dimly. From it, the black hilt emerged—the weapon that always reminded me who I had become.
The sword trembled lightly, as if responding to my emotions. Its dark aura faintly enveloped the room.
I gazed at it briefly, then returned it to the Void Sheath.
Closed the fracture.
As if it had only been a shadow.
Every time I closed my eyes, the old visions returned. Wounds that even time itself refused to heal.
[End]