Darkness did not come all at once.
It arrived in layers.
At first, Tobi thought he was still dreaming.
The sword-space from before was gone—no endless void, no floating blade, no Kaien's presence pressing against his thoughts. Instead, there was weight. Heat. The feeling of something solid beneath his feet.
Stone.
Cold, uneven stone.
He opened his eyes.
He was standing in a narrow corridor, dimly lit by flickering lanterns fixed to the walls. The air smelled faintly of iron and old incense. Somewhere in the distance, water dripped—slow, rhythmic.
Drip.
Drip.
Tobi frowned. "This isn't—"
His voice echoed, too clearly.
And then he realised something that made his chest tighten.
His body felt… small.
He looked down.
His hands were thinner. Shorter. Unscarred.
"…I'm a kid," he whispered.
The lantern light shifted.
Footsteps echoed from behind.
Tobi turned sharply.
A man stood at the far end of the corridor, silhouetted by warmer light spilling in from another hall. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and wearing a worn coat over simple clothes. A sword hung at his side—not ceremonial, not ornate. Practical. Old.
The man's posture was relaxed, but alert.
Like someone who never truly slept.
"Tobi."
The name landed differently.
Not like someone calling him now—but like someone who had done so a thousand times before.
The man crouched, bringing himself to eye level.
"You wandered again," he said, not angry. Just tired.
Young Tobi—no, memory Tobi—looked up at him, eyes wide.
"I was bored," the boy said.
The man sighed, rubbing his temple. "One day, boredom's going to get you killed."
"But you always find me," the boy replied immediately.
The man froze for half a second.
Then he smiled.
Small. Crooked. Real.
"…Yeah," he said. "I do."
Something cracked inside the present Tobi watching from nowhere and everywhere at once.
His chest ached.
He knew this man.
Not as a shadow.
Not as a blur.
Not as a tragic idea.
He knew him as warmth.
The corridor dissolved.
---
They were outside now.
A modest house stood before them, wooden and weathered, tucked between taller buildings as if it had been forgotten by the city. Wind chimes hung by the door, clinking softly. The sky was painted in late-evening orange.
The man set down grocery bags.
"You're late," the boy said accusingly.
"I got distracted," the man replied.
"By what?"
The man hesitated.
Then reached into his coat and pulled out a small paper-wrapped bun.
"Peace offering."
The boy's eyes lit up. "You're forgiven."
They sat on the steps, sharing food in silence.
The man watched the street. Always the street.
"You don't have to watch like that all the time," the boy said through a mouthful.
"Yes, I do."
"Why?"
The man looked down at him.
"Because the world doesn't announce when it's about to hurt you."
The boy frowned. "Then why are you smiling?"
The man blinked—then laughed quietly.
"…Good question."
The present Tobi's hands trembled.
This isn't a lesson, he realised.
This is a life.
The memory shifted again.
---
Night.
Rain.
The sound came first.
A crash—wood splintering. Metal screaming.
The boy jolted awake.
"Tobi."
The man's voice—sharp now.
"Stay in your room."
Fear crept in.
Boots thundered through the house.
Shouts.
Anger.
"You traitor!"
The doorframe cracked.
The boy pressed himself into the corner, hands over his ears.
"I told you not to come here," the man said calmly.
Too calmly.
Steel rang.
A scream—someone else's.
Then—
Silence.
Heavy.
Final.
The boy crept forward.
The hallway was destroyed.
The man lay there.
Still.
Cut down.
Not dramatically.
Not heroically.
Just… gone.
"No," the boy whispered.
He shook him.
Once.
Twice.
"…Get up."
Nothing.
The present Tobi screamed—
But no sound came out.
The memory did not soften.
It did not fade.
It stayed.
The boy's scream tore through the corridor of time.
---
The world shattered.
Light and shadow surged.
The sword-space returned violently.
Tobi fell to his knees.
Kaien stood before him, silent as ever.
"You remembered," the blade said—not with words, but certainty.
Tobi's breathing was ragged. His fists dug into the ground.
"That's not everything," he said hoarsely.
Kaien did not deny it.
"No," the sword replied. "But it is enough."
Tobi lifted his head, tears blurring his vision.
"I wasn't chosen," he said. "I was protected."
Kaien's presence deepened.
"Yes."
The weight inside him finally made sense.
Not destiny.
Not prophecy.
A promise.
Tobi rose slowly.
His voice was quiet—but it no longer shook.
"Then I'll carry it properly."
The sword responded.
Not with power.
With acceptance.
And far away—
in the waking world—
Something that had been watching him for years finally opened its eyes.
Got it.
This will be a direct continuation, woven naturally after Chapter 14's memory shift — no restart, no new chapter title, just the story moving forward.
---
The space around Tobi did not collapse.
It tilted.
Like a memory finally losing its balance.
The sword-space dimmed, the edges blurring, light and shadow pulling back—not rejecting him, but making room.
Then—
A smell.
Oil. Burnt sugar. Old coffee grounds.
Tobi's breath caught.
"…No way…"
The world reshaped itself quietly.
A small café appeared—not perfect, not glowing. Just real. Narrow counters. Scratched wooden tables. A bell above the door that rang too loudly every time someone entered.
Even now, Tobi remembered how that bell annoyed him.
Behind the counter stood a man in his late thirties, sleeves rolled up, hair messy like he never bothered to fix it properly. He wore an apron with a stain that never came out no matter how many times it was washed.
"You're late again," the man said without looking up.
Tobi froze.
That voice.
"…Manager."
The man glanced up and sighed. "I told you, Tobi. If you're going to skip school, at least show up on time for work."
Younger Tobi stood there—thin, quieter, shoulders always pulled in as if trying to take up less space in the world.
"I—I'm sorry," he said quickly. "I stayed late yesterday."
The manager clicked his tongue, but there was no anger in it. He pushed a small plate across the counter.
"Eat first. You work better when you're not half-dead."
Tobi stared at the food.
"…You'll lose money if you keep doing this."
The man snorted. "Kid, if I cared about money that much, I wouldn't be running a café like this."
He leaned back against the counter and crossed his arms.
"You remind me of myself," he added casually. "That's not a compliment."
Tobi remembered that line.
He remembered laughing, just a little.
The memory shifted.
Night.
The café closed. Chairs stacked. Lights dimmed.
The manager stood near the door, counting coins into a small pouch.
"I'm heading out," he said. "Need to grab some supplies for tomorrow. Don't forget to lock up properly."
Tobi nodded. "I'll do it."
The manager paused at the door, then turned back.
"Oh—and Tobi?"
"Yes?"
"…You're doing fine. Don't let anyone tell you otherwise."
The bell rang as he left.
That was the last time.
The memory darkened—not violently, but suddenly.
An alley.
Rain-soaked pavement. Flickering streetlight.
Three shadows.
"Hey, old man. Hand it over."
The manager raised his hands slowly. "It's just change. Take it and go."
A laugh.
"That's enough."
A shove.
The pouch hit the ground, coins scattering like useless stars.
Tobi felt it then—
that same tightening in his chest.
The manager staggered back, hitting the wall.
"Please," he said. "I've got a kid—"
The word kid never finished leaving his mouth.
The memory cut away.
Not to the act.
But to the aftermath.
Police lights.
Rain washing blood into the gutter.
Tobi standing behind yellow tape, hands shaking so badly he couldn't keep them still.
Someone said, "Wrong place, wrong time."
Someone else said, "He should've just given it up faster."
Tobi remembered screaming.
Not out loud.
Inside.
Back in the sword-space, Tobi dropped to one knee.
His breathing was uneven.
"…I forgot," he whispered.
The sword beside him—Kaien—did not glow.
It lowered.
Not in judgment.
In acknowledgment.
Tobi pressed his hand to his chest, where the pain used to be, where the hole had been.
"That's why…" he said softly. "That's why I don't chase power."
Light flickered.
Shadow followed.
"I watched people die for nothing," Tobi continued. "People who didn't deserve it. People who were kind. People who protected me when they didn't have to."
The sword-space responded—not with force, but with stillness.
Kaien's voice did not echo this time.
It spoke close.
You did not forget, it said.
You carried it.
Tobi clenched his fist.
"I don't want strength to take," he said. "I want it to stop things like that from happening again."
The blade hummed.
Not approval.
Recognition.
The memory faded—not erased, not sealed.
Accepted.
And somewhere beyond the sword-space, in the waking world, Tobi's pulse steadied.
The Last Swordsman did not rise from rage.
He rose from remembrance.