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The nameless swordsman thinks.
Why had such fortune come to him?
A second life, something every person dreams of at least once. The nameless swordsman was no exception.
But he had never imagined that he would truly be reborn.
And in Japan, hundreds of years in the future, no less.
Was this what Buddhism called the cycle of rebirth?
Quietly, he recalled his past life.
How he had escaped the fate of growing old and dying as an ordinary farmer.
How he had been captivated by swordsmanship the moment he saw it for the first time in his life.
How he had devoted his entire life to sword training, determined to make that sword aura his own.
And in the end, just before death, how he had barely managed to cut down the moon in the sky with his final breath.
He had been nothing more than a lowly swordsman who gave everything he had to swinging a blade.
A life that left no name in history, one in which he simply kept swinging his sword with stubborn devotion until the day he died.
Some might laugh and call him foolish, but he had not a single regret about his previous life.
Only one thing remained unfinished...
He had not fully made his own the edge of that sword he had barely reached at the moment of death.
Ah. Then there was only one thing to do in this life as well.
Swing the sword.
Simply, steadfastly.
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