The nameless swordsman thought to himself.
Why has such fortune come my way?
A second life—something anyone might dream of at least once—was no exception for me.
But never in my wildest hopes did I imagine I'd actually be reborn, and not just anywhere, but in Japan, centuries in the future.
Could this be the cycle of reincarnation that Buddhism speaks of? He quietly recalled his past life.
How he fled the fate of growing old and dying as a simple farmer.
How, the first time he ever saw swordsmanship, his heart was utterly captivated.
How he devoted his entire life to mastering the blade determined to claim that swordsmanship his own.
And how, at the very brink of death, with his final breath, he managed—just barely—to slice the moon hanging in empty air.
He was nothing more than a mere swordsman, who poured every ounce of his being into wielding a blade.
A life that left no name in history—one spent stubbornly swinging his sword until the day he died.
Some might mock him as a fool, but he harbored not a single regret about his past life.
If there was one thing he did regret…
It's that he was unable to fully make his own the very tip of the blade he barely reached before death.
Ah, then in this life too, there can only be one purpose:
To wield the sword.
Steadfastly, as always.