The evening sun bled across the horizon, painting the sky in shades of crimson and gold. The sound of students laughing echoed across the school grounds—some fresh from soccer practice, others chatting excitedly about the latest online games or after-school plans.
But away from the noise, in a quiet, almost forgotten corner of the campus, an old dojo stood. Its wooden floors creaked with age, its windows clouded from years of neglect. And inside that dojo, a lone figure stood still, holding a wooden sword in his hand.
That boy was Ryuzen Kurogane.
His expression was calm, almost bored, his half-lidded eyes as if the world around him wasn't worth looking at seriously. But the way he held his bokken—the way he moved it—was anything but careless. Every swing cut through the air with precision, every arc sharp and steady.
"…One hundred and twenty-seven."Ryuzen whispered, his voice barely above a murmur. He raised the bokken again, his arms steady despite the hours he had already been practicing.
"One hundred and twenty-eight."
The wooden sword whistled through the air. To anyone else, it was nothing special—just a stick slicing at empty space. But to Ryuzen, each swing carried weight. The sound of the air parting was music to him.
For him, the sword wasn't just a weapon.It was language.It was breath.It was life.
Outside that old dojo, the world had long since changed.
There were no more wars. No duels. No reason to draw steel against another man.
Technology had replaced valor. Laws had replaced strength. Security systems had replaced survival instincts.
In this world, swords were little more than relics—kept behind museum glass, admired as "cultural heritage" but never truly understood.
That was why everyone thought Ryuzen Kurogane was strange.
"He's wasting his time.""Doesn't his father still run that old dojo? So outdated.""Why learn the sword now? It's not like anyone fights anymore. What's the point?"
Those whispers followed him everywhere—at school, on the street, even in the small cafés he occasionally visited. To the modern world, he was just an eccentric, clinging to a dead art.
But Ryuzen didn't care.
"One hundred and fifty."
The wooden sword came down again, steady, unhesitating.
His palms were lined with hardened calluses. His shoulders trembled—not from exhaustion, but from rhythm. His body had grown used to this repetition, this endless dance.
He had only been training for five years.He had started at the age of fourteen.
By all logic, there was no way he could have swung his sword millions of times in such a short span.
Yet, when the bokken moved in his hands, it felt as though he had done so for lifetimes.
Sometimes, in dreams, he would see himself on a battlefield beneath a blood-red sky. He would see dragons soaring overhead, blades clashing with gods, a purple sword tearing the heavens apart. He would see warriors kneeling before him, calling him king.
But when he woke, he was just an ordinary boy.
A boy who trained in a forgotten dojo, swinging a worn bokken in silence.
"One hundred and seventy."
His voice remained steady.
(Ryuzen's inner monologue)"Why do I keep doing this?
Others spend their time on sports, on games, on dating.Why do I waste my hours swinging a stick at empty air?
…I don't know.
Maybe because it feels… fun."
A rare smile tugged at his lips.
"I know the world doesn't need swords anymore.But every time I swing, my heart feels calm.
As if this sword is speaking to me.As if I've swung it not thousands, but millions of times… even though it's only been five years."
He closed his eyes, letting his body move on its own. The bokken rose and fell, rose and fell. His breathing matched the rhythm, and the dojo filled with the steady hum of the blade cutting air.
It was like a heartbeat.
One. Two. A hundred. A thousand. Infinite.
And somewhere deep inside, he felt it—an ancient pulse, a memory of warriors long dead whispering through his veins.
The dojo doors creaked open.
A group of students stood outside, sneering. At the front was Takumi, a classmate with a sharp tongue.
"Oi, Kurogane. Still playing samurai?" Takumi laughed. "What are you, some reincarnated warlord? Seriously, this isn't the Edo period."
The others laughed with him.
"If you've got that much time, join the soccer team.""Or better yet, play games. At least you can make money from e-sports these days.""Swinging a stick like that is just sad."
Ryuzen didn't reply.
He didn't need to.
His sword spoke for him.
"One hundred and ninety-nine. Two hundred."
His voice was calm, detached.
Annoyed, one of the students stepped forward, reaching to grab the bokken from his hand.
Whoosh—
Before his fingers could even touch it, the bokken moved. A blur, sharp as lightning.
The tip stopped a hair's breadth from the boy's throat.
Everyone froze.
Ryuzen's eyes opened. They were calm. Empty. But the weight in his gaze pressed down on the others like a crushing wave.
"…Don't bother me."His voice was quiet, almost lazy. Yet every syllable cut deeper than any blade.
The boys staggered back, pale, and quickly fled, cursing under their breath as they disappeared into the evening.
The dojo fell silent again.
Ryuzen lowered his bokken and rested it on his shoulder. He turned his gaze to the fading sunset through the dusty window.
"Why am I still here…?"
The question needed no answer.
He already knew. This world had no room for the sword.
But deep within his heart, something whispered:
'This world is not yours, Ryuzen.Your place lies elsewhere.On a battlefield where swords are destiny, not relics.'
A faint smile touched his lips again.
"…If that's true… then hurry up and take me there."
He swung the bokken one last time.
The sound rang through the dojo like the toll of a distant bell—a bell that signaled the beginning of fate.
The dojo doors slid shut with a dull wooden thud, and Ryuzen Kurogane exhaled softly. His breath carried the rhythm of the countless swings he had performed since dawn. His hands were calloused, his palms sore, and his shoulder muscles heavy with fatigue. Yet there was a faint curve at the corner of his lips—a smile that was barely there.
"…Already this late, huh."
He tilted his head to the side and glanced at the small digital clock fixed above the dojo's entrance. Its bright red digits glared back at him mercilessly.
07:52 AM.
His eyes widened slightly. The uniform for his high school was still folded neatly in his bag. His shoes were still waiting by the front step. And most importantly—his school began at 8:00 AM sharp.
"…Again."
Ryuzen muttered under his breath, his tone not one of panic but of mild annoyance. He reached for the training sword in his hand, ran a finger along its wooden surface, then carefully placed it back on the rack as if tucking a child to bed. His dojo, while small, was kept clean with meticulous care. Even when he was rushing, he would never leave his blade unattended.
"Already how many times… have I been late because of this?" he said to himself, shutting the sliding door behind him and locking it. "Hah… not like it matters."
Despite his words, his legs moved quickly, his shoes slapping against the pavement as he rushed down the quiet residential street. The morning air brushed against his face, cool yet tinged with the faint heat of sunlight. Schoolbags bobbed on the backs of other students far ahead of him, most of whom were already crossing the road toward the gates of Tensei High School.
By the time Ryuzen slipped through the open gate, the chime signaling the start of the first period had not yet rung. He exhaled in relief. His pace slowed to a walk, unhurried, almost lazy now that his small crisis was over.
The building loomed before him, white walls reflecting the morning sun. He climbed the stairs to the third floor and slid open the door of Class 2-B.
The first thing he noticed was the absence of authority. No teacher stood at the podium yet. A few students chatted at their desks, some scrolled through their phones, others scribbled last-minute homework. The atmosphere was relaxed, almost careless.
Ryuzen allowed himself a rare sigh of relief. "Good. Not late… technically."
His shoulders loosened as he stepped inside.
And then—
"Oi, Kurogane!"
A cheerful voice pierced the hum of conversation. From the back corner of the classroom, a boy with messy brown hair and a half-tucked shirt waved his hand. His smile stretched wide, brimming with energy that seemed endless.
Ryuzen turned his head slowly, his expression blank. "…Daichi."
Daichi Hayama. That was his name. The kind of boy everyone found easy to get along with. Quick to laugh, quicker to talk, and always the one dragging others into his pace. If Ryuzen was a still pond, Daichi was a rushing river.
"You're late again, huh?" Daichi leaned back in his chair, folding his arms behind his head with a grin. "Seriously, man, do you have a personal grudge against alarm clocks or something?"
Ryuzen slipped into his seat near the window, directly in front of Daichi. He dropped his bag to the floor with a soft thud and rested his chin on his palm. His eyes drifted outside to the courtyard where sunlight fell on the trees.
"…I was focused."
"Focused?"
"On the sword."
Daichi groaned dramatically, dragging his hands down his face. "You're unbelievable. In this day and age, who trains with a sword every single morning? We live in the twenty-first century, Kurogane. There's no battlefield. No samurai duels. No… whatever you're imagining."
Ryuzen's reply was slow, quiet, but carried a weight that silenced Daichi for a brief second.
"…It doesn't matter." He turned his gaze back to the window. "The sword isn't about them. It's about me."
The chatter of the room buzzed on. A group of girls near the front giggled over a shared video, two boys in the corner compared test answers, and someone tossed a paper ball across the aisle. It was the same atmosphere as every morning—ordinary, unremarkable.
But Daichi leaned forward on his desk, staring at Ryuzen with curiosity mixed with mild exasperation.
"You know, if you put half the effort into your grades that you put into swinging that stick of yours, you'd probably be top of the class," Daichi said. "Instead, you're barely scraping by. Teachers are starting to think you're hopeless."
Ryuzen gave him a side glance. "…Hopeless, huh."
"Yeah. But honestly?" Daichi smirked. "I think you're just weird. Like, really weird. Who in their right mind says swinging a sword is 'fun'?"
"…Me."
The blunt answer drew a burst of laughter from Daichi that earned the two of them annoyed glances from a few classmates. Ryuzen didn't react. His eyes wandered back to the trees swaying outside.
Fun. Yes. To others, it was meaningless. But to him, the act of swinging, again and again, was… comfort. The rhythm, the weight, the strain on his muscles—all of it felt natural, like breathing.
Daichi shook his head. "You're a mystery, man. One of these days, the world's gonna change, and maybe then you'll finally be useful with that sword of yours."
"…Maybe."
The door slid open suddenly, and the classroom snapped to attention. Students shuffled back to their seats as the homeroom teacher walked in with his usual stack of papers.
"All right, everyone, settle down," the teacher said. His voice was monotonous, the kind of tone that came from years of routine. He adjusted his glasses and scanned the room briefly before launching into morning announcements.
Ryuzen half-listened, his eyes still outside. For some reason, a strange shiver ran down his spine. It wasn't the teacher's words. It wasn't the noise of his classmates.
It was something else.
Like the faint echo of a distant bell… calling.
He blinked once. The sensation vanished, leaving behind only the hum of everyday life.
"…Hallucination?" he muttered under his breath.
Daichi poked the back of his chair. "What'd you say?"
"…Nothing."
The final echo of chalk on the blackboard faded. Their homeroom teacher snapped his book shut, adjusted his glasses, and gave a perfunctory bow before walking toward the door.
"That's all for this period. Don't forget to complete your assignments by tomorrow."
The door slid closed behind him, and the buzz of conversation returned instantly. Desks scraped as students shifted, chatter filling the air. Some reached for snacks, others for their phones.
For a moment, it was perfectly normal. Too normal.
Ryuzen sat by the window, elbow on his desk, eyes drifting lazily toward the sky. His classmates' voices blurred into meaningless background noise. He had almost closed his eyes—when something inside him twitched.
A tremor.
Not in the ground. Not in the walls. But in him.
His chest tightened as if some invisible hand gripped his heart. His eyes snapped open, pupils narrowing. His body stiffened and he stood up abruptly, chair screeching against the floor.
The sudden noise silenced the classroom for a beat. Dozens of eyes turned toward him.
"Kurogane?" someone muttered.
"What's with him?"
"He suddenly stood up—what's his problem?"
Ryuzen didn't hear them. His breath caught, gaze fixed on the empty air above the classroom floor. Something was there—something no one else seemed to notice. His instincts screamed danger, the same instincts honed through countless unseen swings of his blade.
A presence. A pulse.
It was faint, but growing stronger.
"Oi, oi!" A boy at the back laughed. "Look at him—standing like he saw a ghost!"
More laughter followed. Whispered jokes, snickers behind palms.
"Seriously, Kurogane, what's wrong with you? Did a samurai spirit possess you or something?"
Ryuzen's jaw clenched. His hands trembled—not out of fear, but out of something harder to name. Panic? No. Recognition.
This wasn't normal. The world itself felt off.
He tried to form words, but his voice stuck in his throat.
Then—
"Hey… the lights just flickered, right?"
A girl's nervous voice cut through the mockery.
Students turned their heads. Indeed, the fluorescent bulbs above them dimmed for the briefest moment before stabilizing again. A chill ran through the room.
"That's… weird."
Someone stood and moved toward the door. "I'll go check with the teacher."
The sliding door rattled. Once. Twice. Thrice.
It wouldn't budge.
"What the hell?" The boy yanked harder, but the door refused to move as if welded shut. His knuckles whitened. "It's stuck—no, it's… sealed?"
A sound, low and resonant, thrummed through the floor. It was like the beating of a massive heart buried deep beneath the earth. Students staggered, looking around wildly.
Then it appeared.
A faint glow traced itself across the classroom floor—lines of pale blue light weaving into symbols no one recognized. They curved, bent, and overlapped in intricate patterns. A circle. A vast circle encompassing every desk, every chair, every student.
The classroom erupted.
"What the hell is this?!"
"It's on the floor! It's glowing—!"
"Step back! Don't touch it!"
But there was no space to step back. The light engulfed them all, and the air itself felt heavy, pressing down on their lungs.
Ryuzen's eyes widened. The patterns, the energy, the way the air warped—it was undeniable. His lips parted, words slipping out in a low voice.
"…So this is it. The other world."
Daichi, who had fallen half out of his chair, whipped his head toward Ryuzen, eyes wide with shock yet sparkling with excitement.
"Kurogane… this—this is a magic circle!"
"…Magic circle," Ryuzen echoed, voice flat but edged with tension.
Daichi's grin widened despite the panic around them. "Yes! Exactly like in anime—like in every isekai story! Holy crap, it's real!"
"…" Ryuzen's gaze sharpened on the glowing lines beneath their feet. His throat tightened. "You've been watching too many shows, Daichi. But…" His voice lowered to a near whisper. "Maybe you're right. This might actually be… the gateway."
"The gateway?"
"…To a fantasy world."
Daichi's breath caught. His eyes sparkled with something dangerously close to joy.
Around them, classmates were screaming. Some cried, some prayed, some beat their fists against the walls that no longer yielded. Others—strangely—smiled with anticipation, as if they too had longed for this moment.
Chaos reigned in the room, but Ryuzen stood unnaturally still, his fists clenched, his gaze fixed downward.
The circle's light grew blinding, filling the room with a brilliance that erased all shadows. The hum became a roar. Every symbol blazed as if carved by fire.
Then—
The ground beneath them vanished.
Students screamed as weight abandoned their bodies, as if they were falling through endless space. Desks, chairs, bags—all dissolved into fragments of light. The classroom was gone, stripped away like an illusion.
Ryuzen's vision blurred, his breath lost. His ears rang with chaos, but inside him was a strange calm.
So this was it.
The thing his blade had been yearning for, perhaps without him realizing.
"…Finally."
The fall ended with sudden impact—not of pain, but of solidity. His knees bent slightly, absorbing the shock as his feet struck stone. Air rushed back into his lungs.
He blinked.
The world before him was not the white walls of Tensei High.
It was vast.
An enormous hall stretched outward, ceiling arched high above like a cathedral. Stone pillars carved with ancient runes lined the space, and braziers of blue flame lit the air with an otherworldly glow. The scent of incense and dust hung heavy.
Around him, his classmates materialized one by one, collapsing to the ground or staggering to their feet. Their screams and gasps filled the chamber.
And before them—
Figures stood.
Men and women in robes of white and gold, staffs in hand, eyes glowing faintly as though touched by the divine. Their presence was heavy, commanding. They looked nothing like teachers, nothing like humans Ryuzen knew.
"Welcome, heroes," one of them intoned, voice echoing across the stone hall.
The room fell silent.
Ryuzen's heart thudded once, hard. He narrowed his eyes, his hand twitching instinctively at his side as though reaching for a blade that wasn't there.
So it was true.
Not just a fantasy. Not just a dream.
This was another world.