Rei's heart sank. He checked the connections, traced the wiring with his eyes, looking for the obvious mistake,
Then the room filled with a high, promising whine.
The crystal hummed to life, vibrating in its mounts. Energy crawled along the coils like electric serpents. The harmonizer wafers began to glow, first dim, then bright, then blazing.
And from the emitter tip,
A thin filament of blue-white energy leapt into existence.
Flickering. Unstable. Barely three inches long. But there.
A thread of contained plasma that danced like lightning frozen in glass, casting sharp shadows across his room.
For one perfect, crystalline heartbeat, Rei felt something he hadn't experienced in years.
Pure, unfiltered joy.
"Yes... YES!" His voice cracked with emotion. "I did it. I actually"
CRACK.
The filament collapsed violently. Sparks exploded along the containment ring like miniature fireworks. The device bucked in his grip, a savage, animalistic twist that nearly tore his wrist.
Rei's arm snapped to the side, pulled by impossible torque. His shoulder screamed in protest. His legs gave out.
He crashed into his desk chair, breath coming in ragged gasps, the prototype clutched in both hands now, knuckles white with effort.
What the hell,
The device was still active, still humming. The crystal demanded to be released, pushing against the containment field with barely-restrained violence. Even without the filament deployed, the recoil was immense, a constant pressure trying to twist the weapon out of alignment.
Rei tried to steady it. His arms shook violently. His biceps burned. The room started spinning.
I can't... I can't hold it...
The containment field flickered. The crystal's hum rose to a dangerous pitch.
Rei slammed the power switch off.
The device went dead.
He dropped it on the desk like it had bitten him and collapsed back into his chair, chest heaving, sweat dripping down his face and neck.
For a long moment, he just sat there, staring at the prototype that looked so innocent now, so harmless.
I'm not strong enough.
The realization hit like a physical blow, knocking the wind from his lungs.
In his previous life, five years older, body hardened by starvation and combat and endless running, his muscles had been tempered by suffering. He'd been stronger. Not much stronger, but enough.
This eighteen-year-old body, though whole and healthy, lacked the raw physical strength to control a weapon that behaved more like a caged beast than a tool.
But there was worse. So much worse.
I don't know how to use a sword.
The thought crashed through his triumph like a wrecking ball through glass.
In the future, his "combat experience" had been desperate, improvised violence, wild slashes and frantic blocks learned through necessity, not technique. He'd survived through luck, desperation, and the fact that most of his opponents had been barely better trained than him.
But this weapon, this plasma blade, required mastery.
Proper stances to manage the torque. Parries timed to the field's harmonics. Footwork that would keep the emitter aligned during combat. Understanding of leverage, momentum, balance.
Without technique, even a perfectly tuned device was worse than useless.
It was a liability. A death sentence waiting to happen. A weapon more likely to kill him than his enemies.
The old panic rose in his throat like bile, cold and choking. The memory of drowning in that river crashed over him with visceral clarity: cold water filling his lungs, darkness closing in from the edges, the helpless terror of a body that refused to obey.
His breath came faster. Shorter. His vision tunneled.
I can't do this. I'm not strong enough. Not skilled enough. Not,
SLAM.
Rei's fist crashed down on the desk, making components jump and scatter. The pain in his knuckles cut through the panic like a knife, bringing clarity with it.
"No," he snarled at the empty room. "No, I didn't claw my way back from death to give up now. I didn't watch them die twice to fail because I'm weak."
He forced himself to breathe. Slowly. Deeply. In for four counts, hold for four, out for four.
Let his strategist's mind take over from the frightened boy.
Problems can be solved. If I admit them honestly. If I plan properly. If I stop being afraid of my own limitations and work around them instead.
He pulled out a scrap of paper and a pencil, hands still trembling slightly, and began listing solutions with brutal pragmatism:
Rei read through his lists again, each line like a small stone in his pocket.
The first problem was simple and cruel: he didn't have the strength to handle the blade. He could try to cheat with machines , fit the hilt with a gyroscopic core and tiny servos to steady the blade when it whipped, let gears and motors do what his arms could not. He already had the core and the servos; it would take a couple of days with the right tools. But machines broke, crystals drained, and there was no guarantee the contraption would hold in a real fight.
He could shift the burden to his body instead, build a harness or shoulder brace so the weight spread across his torso instead of all on his wrists. He could salvage ceramic plates from old armor and stuff some padding inside. It would help, but it would be bulky under his clothes, slow him down, and still might fail if a battle dragged on.
There was also the blunt, honest option: shorten the blade. Less reach, less recoil, less power needed. Recalibrate the harmonizer, tone the crystal down, change the emitter. It made the weapon less deadly, he'd have to get closer to danger, but at least he might be able to use it.
And then there was the slowest, most human option: get stronger. Grip, forearms, shoulders, core the dull, steady work of training. It would hurt. It would take weeks or months. He might have to lie about why he was suddenly lifting weights and running stairs.
The second problem was harder to hide: he had never been taught how to fight with a sword.
He could find a teacher, a retired duelist swordsman, an old soldier, maybe an Ironvale smith who taught basics. Lessons would teach him stance, parry, and footwork, but lessons cost money and attention. A newcomer drew questions; a teacher might have ties to people he wanted to avoid.
He could teach himself: study duels, watch trainings, read manuals, practice alone in the dark. Safer, quieter. But without a coach, he could learn the wrong moves and build habits that would fail when it mattered.
Or he could do both: learn the basics alone, then seek someone to polish what was wrong. It sounded perfect until he remembered that doing both combined all the risks, expense, exposure, and wasted effort if he picked the wrong mentor.
Rei stared at his lists, feeling the weight of each option pressing down on his shoulders.
Every solution had costs. Time. Risk. Exposure.
Training meant leaving the apartment more often, asking questions that might attract the wrong attention. Mechanical assists required expertise he didn't fully trust himself to implement without catastrophic failure. Self-teaching was slow, potentially creating more problems than it solved.
But doing nothing meant watching Mira awaken her powers in two weeks with no way to protect her from what came next.
That wasn't acceptable.
I'll do it all. Every option. Stack every advantage I can steal, beg, or build. Become a weapon through sheer stubborn refusal to fail again.
When the sun dropped low and shadows pooled in the alley outside his window, Rei went back to work.