Phase: Dimensional Transition

  [ Location: The Void Between Worlds ]

  In the absolute darkness, where time and space cease to exist, flickering runes of crimson light began to pulse against the void.

  >> Vessel Synchronization: 1.0%

  >> Status: Physical Body Deceased / Consciousness Persistent

  [ ERROR: God of War’s Blade Detected ]

  [ Protocol Alpha: Transferring Consciousness to Compatible Vessel ]

  [ Target Destination: .... — The ...... Realm ]

  [ ERROR: Detection of Foreign Souls Within the Vessel ]

  [ Analysis: Absorbed Essences of 'Kai' and 'Sarah' detected ]

  [ Action: Deleting Residual Sentience... Repairing Corruption... ]

  >> System Calibration Complete <<

  [ Ability Analysis: Soul Absorption ]

  Result: Extraction of Knowledge, Languages, and Memories from the Slain.

  Compensation: Consuming souls fuels the Blade but inflicts 'Phantom Agony' on the User.

  Condition: Deletion. The absorbed souls are erased from the cycle of reincarnation.

  [ WARNING: Mental Stability Threshold ]

  Risk: If Vessel Synchronization exceeds 50%, permanent neural decay and insanity will occur.

  Solution: Must slay a High-Tier Dragon to reinforce the Soul-Core.

  >> Finalizing Displacement... <<

  >> 3... 2... 1... <<

  Yuma’s eyes snapped open.

  The first thing he felt wasn't the air, but a violent, rhythmic throbbing in his skull—a headache so sharp it felt like a railroad spike being driven into his temples. He sat up with a gasp, his fingers instinctively clawing at the earth. He expected to feel the cold, oily mud of Kyoto; instead, he felt soft, silver-tipped moss.

  Beside him lay the blade—the jagged, obsidian mystery that had burned his old life to ash.

  "Where... am I?"

  His voice was a rasp, unfamiliar even to himself. He looked around. Gone were the grey monoliths of industry. In their place stood trees so massive they seemed to support the indigo sky, their leaves shimmering with a faint, bioluminescent pulse. Small creatures scurried through the undergrowth, fleeing in a chaotic panic, as if sensing the arrival of something unnatural. Something dangerous.

  Yuma gripped the hilt and stood. His body felt different—lighter, coiled with a hidden, kinetic tension.

  A rustle in the thicket. Then, the heavy, wet thud of footsteps.

  A Goblin emerged. It was a hunched, emerald-skinned nightmare, its face a landscape of warts and malice. It shrieked—a high, piercing sound that acted as a clarion call to the rest of its hidden pack. Without hesitation, the creature lunged, swinging a crude, rusted mace.

  In Yuma’s mind, the world slowed. He didn't think; he remembered. The sword didn't feel like a tool; it felt like a limb he had used for a thousand years. With a fluid grace that defied his previous life as a factory worker, he stepped inside the goblin’s guard.

  A single, sweeping arc of crimson light. The goblin’s head spun into the air before its body even realized it was dead.

  >> Vessel Synchronization: 1.1% <<

  The surrounding woods erupted. A dozen goblins emerged, but they weren't alone. The ground began to tremor as a Chieftain pushed through the trees—a mountain of scarred green flesh, seven feet tall, wielding a club carved from a prehistoric femur.

  The Chieftain roared, a sound of pure, arrogant dominance. It charged like a rabid bull, its massive weapon raised to crush the intruder into the dirt.

  Yuma didn't retreat. He leaped backward, his movements precise and feline. The Chieftain’s club shattered a boulder where Yuma had stood a microsecond before. The beast’s arrogance was palpable, a stench of self-importance that reminded Yuma too much of Kai.

  The Chieftain struck again, blow after blow that could have leveled a building. Yuma didn't just dodge; he absorbed. He caught the momentum on the flat of his blade, his body instinctively redirecting the force. He was a shadow dancing around a thunderstorm.

  As the Chieftain paused to wheeze, leaning on its weapon, Yuma found himself standing atop the very club that was meant to kill him. The beast growled, its massive hand snapping shut around Yuma’s torso, lifting him like a toy.

  The pressure was immense, ribs groaning under the strain. But Yuma remained calm. His mind, cracked and fractured by the transition, saw only the opening.

  He didn't struggle against the grip. He lunged forward.

  With a lightning-fast motion, he drove the shard-blade directly into the Chieftain’s bulging yellow eye. A geyser of black ichor erupted. The beast shrieked in agonizing shock, its grip loosening.

  Yuma caught his sword as he fell, twisting mid-air. In one seamless, horizontal stroke, he severed the monster’s throat.

  This story is posted elsewhere by the author. Help them out by reading the authentic version.

  The Chieftain collapsed, a mountain of meat falling into the moss. The remaining goblins, seeing their god-like leader slaughtered by a single man, turned and vanished into the shadows like rats fleeing a fire.

  Yuma’s head throbbed again, the sword vibrating in his hand.

  >> Vessel Synchronization: 4.0% <<

  He stood amidst the silence, his chest heaving. He walked slowly toward a nearby cliff's edge. Below him, the forest stretched for miles, a sea of glowing flora and hidden dangers. It was beautiful, but it was a beauty built on the law of the hunt.

  "This will do," he whispered, his architect's mind already scanning the terrain. He looked toward a small, crystalline lake nestled between the silver trees. "I need a shelter. A temporary forge."

  The hammer had found its anvil. The path of the Polished Soul was no longer a dream—it was a survival.

  The shelter Yuma had built crouched quietly against the night, a fragile scar on the face of an ancient forest.

  He sat cross-legged beside a small fire, a mere ember huddling in a circle of stones. He kept the flames low, feeding it only the driest twigs. In this world, too much light was an invitation for the things that hunted in the dark, and too little was an invitation for the cold dread that threatened to hollow out his chest.

  Two moons hung in the indigo sky like the eyes of a watching god—one a pale, sickly silver, the other a faint, ethereal blue. Their light filtered through the gaps in the shelter, casting broken, skeletal shadows across the dirt floor.

  The shattered hilt rested across his knees, its metal cold, yet vibrating with a phantom pulse that resonated in Yuma’s marrow.

  “Knowledge,” Yuma murmured. His voice felt thin and brittle, a foreign sound in a forest that breathed with a thousand unknown lives. “I know this place now. I know the scent of the poisonous briar. I know which shadows move when the wind doesn't.”

  He flexed his fingers, watching the firelight play across his scarred knuckles.

  “I know how to survive,” he continued, his brow furrowing. “But it feels... wrong.”

  It was like wearing someone else’s bones beneath his skin. The memories of the Goblin Chieftain—the maps of the undergrowth, the taste of raw meat, the instinct to kill for the sake of cruelty—were etched into his mind. It was a library of violence he hadn't asked for, a weight of "Labor" stolen from the dead.

  The sword did not answer with words. Its runes glowed softly—an amber hue instead of the violent crimson of battle—pulsing in a slow, patient rhythm. It was resting. Waiting for the next furnace.

  Yuma leaned back against the uneven wall and closed his eyes. Exhaustion, heavier than any factory shift, finally dragged him down. Sleep came, but rest remained a stranger. It was the fragile stillness of a man who had learned the hard way that peace was just a temporary silence between storms.

  The twig didn't just snap; it screamed in the silence.

  Yuma didn't wake like a normal man. He ignited.

  Pain lanced across his fingertips, a jolt of static electricity that set his nerves on fire. The sword didn't make a sound, yet a silent alarm roared through his consciousness—a violent, jagged warning that bypassed his ears and struck straight at his survival instinct.

  His eyes snapped open.

  Moonlight spilled through the shelter’s entrance, framing a slender silhouette standing just beyond the threshold. The silver light caught the curve of a bow, drawn taut, and the glint of an arrowhead aimed directly between his eyes.

  “Don’t move,” a voice hissed.

  It was a melodic voice, yet it sounded like glass stretched to its breaking point. Brittle. Sharp. Terrified.

  Yuma went perfectly still. Not out of obedience, but out of calculation. He studied the girl. Her breathing was uneven, too shallow and too fast. Her heartbeat was thundering so loudly in the quiet night that he could almost track its rhythm.

  She wasn’t a hunter. She was a cornered animal trying to look like one.

  “You’re an elf,” Yuma said quietly.

  The words surprised him as much as they did her. The language he used was ancient, flowing from his throat with a guttural, jagged accent—the dialect of the forest, gifted to him by the essence of the creatures he had slaughtered.

  The bowstring creaked as her grip tightened.

  “How do you speak the Ancient Tongue, human?” she demanded. Her emerald eyes burned with a mix of fury and soul-deep exhaustion. “How does a scavenger from the mud possess the speech of the High Wood?”

  Yuma understood the question, but the answer was too dark to speak. He saw the images flicker in his mind—the goblin hunting parties, the long-eared prey they had tracked through these very bushes.

  “I don’t mean you harm,” Yuma said, keeping his hands visible but ready. “Lower the bow, and we can speak.”

  “I do not speak with ghosts and thieves,” she spat.

  The moment stretched, thin and agonizing—then it shattered.

  Yuma moved. He wasn't a master swordsman, but he possessed the Momentum of a machine. He struck the bow aside with the blunt edge of the hilt, the force of his movement echoing the heavy swing of a factory hammer. The arrow flew wide, burying itself in the dirt floor with a dull thud.

  Before she could draw another, he was on her.

  They crashed into the moss outside the shelter. Yuma pinned her wrists above her head, his weight locking her down with the cold efficiency of a hydraulic press. For a heartbeat, neither of them moved.

  Pointed ears. Emerald eyes burning with a defiance that masked a terrible, hollow despair. Dirt smeared across her high cheekbones. Her breath shook against his face, smelling of crushed herbs and fear.

  She was fragile. Beautiful. And completely out of place in a world that enjoyed breaking things.

  “I told you,” Yuma said, his voice dropping to a low, dangerous rumble. “I am not your enemy. But if you aim a weapon at me again... I will forget that I have a soul.”

  Before she could answer, a voice boomed from the darkness of the trees—a voice that smelled of cheap alcohol and rotted meat.

  “Luna! You little bitch!”

  Heavy footsteps approached, crushing the undergrowth with no regard for stealth.

  “Have you found the wretch yet?” the voice called out, followed by a wet, hacking cough. “If he’s dead, make sure his gear is intact. If he’s alive... well, the boys need some entertainment before we move the cargo.”

  The girl—Luna—went rigid beneath Yuma. The defiance in her eyes vanished, replaced by a soul-crushing resignation.

  Yuma felt the shift immediately. He knew that look. He had seen it in the mirror every morning in Kyoto. It was the look of someone who had realized they weren't the hunter—they were the bait.

  He moved without hesitation.

  He flipped her onto her stomach, binding her wrists with a length of vine in a series of quick, practiced motions. Luna gasped, her face pressed into the moss, but before she could cry out, Yuma pressed the cold, jagged hilt of the sword to the side of her neck.

  It wasn't hard enough to draw blood. It was just enough to promise silence.

  “Stay,” he whispered.

  Then, he vanished into the shadows like smoke in a coal mine.

  A man ducked into the shelter, his silhouette broad and clumsy. He reeked of sweat and stagnant ale. He wore mismatched leather armor, stained with old blood, and a rusted shortsword swung at his hip.

  “There you are,” the man sneered, seeing Luna bound on the ground. “Why didn't you shout, you little brat? Making me walk all this way in the damp...”

  He stepped further into the dark, reaching for her.

  Yuma stepped out of the blackness behind him.

  He didn't use the blade. He used the hilt as a hammer. It smashed into the man’s throat with a sickening crunch.

  A wet, choking sound followed as the bandit’s windpipe collapsed. He fell to his knees, clawing uselessly at his neck as air refused to return to his lungs. Yuma grabbed him by the hair and dragged him back into the deeper shadows, away from Luna’s sight.

  「 Purge the dross... 」 The sword pulsed against his palm, hungry and impatient. 「 Refine the waste. Take what is owed. 」

  Yuma hesitated. Only for the space of a heartbeat.

  Then, he placed his palm flat against the dying man’s forehead.

  Crimson light flared, blinding and hot.

  Images poured into Yuma’s mind, violent and disjointed. A riverside camp... a rusted iron cage... a crying child with ears as pointed as Luna’s.

  Leni.

  The bandit went limp, his eyes rolling back as his very essence was "refined" into the blade. Yuma straightened up, his eyes glowing with a faint, predatory red light that faded slowly into his natural brown.

  He turned back to Luna and cut her bindings with a single flick of the shard.

  “They have your sister,” Yuma said. His voice was unnervingly calm. “Alive. Three miles northeast. Four men left. One is armed with a crossbow, two with spears, and a leader who thinks he’s a king.”

  Luna stared at him as if he were a nightmare given flesh. Her lips trembled.

  “How...?” Her voice cracked. “Who are you? What did you do to Shin?”

  Yuma didn't answer. He tossed her the bandit’s knife. It landed in the moss with a soft thump.

  “I’m the man who’s going to help you get her back,” he said, his eyes turning toward the northeast. “And I’m the man who is going to show them that some tools... can't be broken twice. Move.”

  They slipped through the forest in a silence that felt heavy and suffocating. Luna followed him, her fear slowly cracking, giving way to a fragile, desperate hope.

  “They’ll kill her if they sense magic,” she whispered as the orange flicker of a campfire appeared through the trees. “The leader... he has charms. Anti-mage talismans. He’ll slit her throat the moment a spell is cast.”

  Yuma stopped. He looked down at the broken sword in his hand. He felt the weight of his mother’s death, the manager’s sneer, and Sarah’s betrayal. It was all there, coiled like a spring of black iron.

  “Then we don't use magic,” he said, his voice flat.

  He handed Luna the hilt.

  Her eyes widened, her hands shaking as she took the cursed metal. “What are you doing? This is your only weapon!”

  “No,” Yuma said, his eyes fixing on the camp where four men sat laughing around a fire. “It’s not.”

  He clasped his hands behind his back, adopting the posture of a defeated man—the posture he had perfected in the factory.

  “Tell them I betrayed Shin. Tell them I killed him and tried to run, but you caught me.”

  “You’re insane,” she whispered. “They’ll kill you before you get within five paces.”

  Yuma smiled. It wasn't a happy smile. It was the smile of a machine that had finally figured out how to break the gears that ground it down.

  “I know,” he whispered. “But they’re late.”

  “Late for what?”

  “The medicine.”

  They stepped out into the firelight.

  Luna raised her voice, her tremor now serving as the perfect mask for her act. “Shin is dead! This rat killed him in his sleep!”

  The laughter around the fire died instantly.

  One man, the leader with a scarred face and eyes full of filth, stood up. He walked over to Yuma and grabbed him by the hair, yanking his head back with a brutal jerk.

  “A rat, eh?” the leader sneered, his breath smelling of rot. “You look like you’ve already been chewed up and spat out. I think I’ll peel you slowly. I’ll make the elf watch before I sell her.”

  Yuma met the man’s eyes. He didn't blink. He didn't plead.

  “You’re late,” Yuma whispered.

  The leader frowned, his grip tightening. “What? What did you say, you piece of trash?”

  “The medicine,” Yuma growled, his voice vibrating with a sudden, violent surge of Suffering. “It’s too late for a cure.”

  CRACK.

  Yuma’s forehead slammed into the leader’s nose with the force of a falling anvil. Bone snapped. Blood sprayed.

  The fire flared a brilliant, angry crimson.

  “One down,” Yuma growled as the world began to burn.

  “Three to go.”