I wiped my tears on the back of my arm, smearing dirt across my face. My heart was still pounding like war drums in my chest, but I forced myself to breathe.
"Okay. Okay, okay… I got a system now," I muttered. "And it's some kind of gacha system where I get points by saving people."
I glanced at the floating screen beside me.
Points: 100
[Gacha Roll]
"Fantastic," I sighed. "So I save people, gamble for powers, and somehow try not to die in the process.
…Fuck, this is gonna be tough."
I opened the status window again and looked over my stats.
Strength: 5
Agility: 5
Durability: 5
Intelligence: 5
Spirit: 2
Charm: 30
I snorted. "Well… 'the handsome weak son of the blacksmith' was more accurate than I thought."
Then my gaze shifted to the boy.
He was staring at me with wide, tear-filled eyes, clinging to his mother's arm. She was still unconscious, but breathing.
I knelt beside him and tried to sound calm — like someone who wasn't on the verge of a breakdown.
"Hey," I said, voice softer now. "It's not the time to cry. Go. Get to the shelter in the mountains. The others should be there."
He blinked at me, lips quivering.
"Go," I repeated, gently. "I'll stay with your mom until someone comes… Just get help."
He hesitated, then gave me a shaky nod. He wiped his nose on his sleeve and ran — unsteady, but moving.
I watched him disappear into the trees, then looked back at his mother.
And suddenly, I laughed. Just once. Dry. Tired.
"A coward like me, telling someone else to stop crying? What a joke…"
I ran a hand through my white hair and shook my head.
"Next thing you know, I'll be going around yelling 'Boy.' like Kratos."
I sighed, then glanced at the screen again.
"…System," I said. "Use my points for a Gacha Roll."
Ding.
Skill Acquired
[Swordsmanship: Niten Ganryu (Beginner)]
My eyes widened.
Swordsmanship.
I'd always dreamed of learning it—deep down, even when I was pretending I didn't care. But fear… fear always held me back. I was too scared to lose my head to even pick up a blade.
But then I read the name again.
Niten Ganryu.
A style. Not just random sword swings—a true swordsmanship school. And not just any style. This one…
My jaw clenched.
It was the style used by Kojiro Sasaki to slay Poseidon, a literal god, in Record of Ragnarok. A technique forged from countless sword styles, perfected through failure and adaptation. Niten Ganryu was a reflection of a swordsman who learned from everyone—and surpassed them all.
Even at Beginner level, it had potential. Power. Purpose.
I opened my status screen again, hands trembling just a little.
"Please," I whispered, looking skyward—or maybe toward whoever gave me this system. "You who blessed me with this… let my stats be enough to fight. Don't let me be that guy with the perfect technique but no body to swing it."
I stared into the trees, into the distance where the village still burned.
"…I could still run," I muttered. "Wait for the Marines. Let them clean it up. That's what they're for, right?"
Then I slapped myself. Hard.
"No," I growled. "You were given a system to show you could be more than a coward. Act like it."
I knelt, gently lifted the unconscious woman onto my back, adjusted her weight across my shoulders, and turned toward home.
I ran.
Not away this time—but toward something.
My house wasn't far. When I burst through the door of the forge, it was still untouched. I laid the woman down on a pile of old blankets, then moved to the display case against the wall.
There it was.
A nodachi.
A long, slender katana. Beautiful and deadly.
My father had given it to me years ago. He said maybe, just maybe, it would spark something in me. Make me want to learn.
I never touched it.
Until now.
I took it down with both hands. It felt heavier than I remembered, but… it fit.
The scabbard was old, but the blade inside was pristine—gleaming steel, forged by my ancestors.
Its name was Arashikiri — He Who Cuts the Storm.
A Great Grade sword, handed down through generations. And now, given to a coward.
"Yeah," I muttered, strapping it to my back. "Sometimes… it's cool being the son of a blacksmith."
I tightened the strap on Arashikiri, the nodachi resting against my side .
I'd never drawn a sword before. Not seriously. Not with the intent to use it.
My hands were sweating.
My knees still wanted to shake.
But my legs? They moved forward.
Outside, the village was still chaos. The sky bled orange from the fires, and smoke carried the sound of screaming like a cursed wind. I clenched my teeth and stepped out of the forge.
Then I heard footsteps—fast, heavy—coming around the corner.
Too late to hide.
A pirate came into view. Shirtless, scarred, wielding a spiked club and grinning like he'd already won.
He froze when he saw me. Then laughed.
"Oi! A pretty boy with a sword!" he jeered. "You gonna cut me with that toy, snowflake?"
My heart pounded.
Run.
My old instinct whispered, begging me to back away, to disappear into the shadows and pretend I never left the forge.
But something inside me stood firm.
My fingers curled around the hilt of Arashikiri. I didn't draw it yet.
"I'm giving you one chance," I said, surprised by how steady my voice sounded. "Turn around and leave."
The pirate blinked. Then howled with laughter.
"Oh, that's rich. You hear that, boys?!"
No response. No backup. Just me and him.
"Suit yourself," he grinned. "I'll make it quick—"
He lunged.
My body moved before I could think.
Arashikiri left its scabbard in one clean motion.
My stance adjusted.
Feet shifted.
Arms flowed.
I wasn't fast. I wasn't strong.
But for the first time ever, my fear didn't stop me.
I dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding the club. My blade followed instinct—or maybe something deeper—and slashed across his arm. Not deep. Not fatal. But enough.
The pirate roared in pain and stumbled back, clutching his shoulder.
His eyes, wild a second ago, now filled with something else.
Caution.
I raised Arashikiri again, hands trembling… but still raised.
"…I warned you."
He turned and ran.
I didn't chase.
I just stood there, breathing hard, blade gleaming in the firelight.
Ding.
You saved 1 person.
+100 Points
I blinked.
"…Who did I save this time?"
Behind me, a soft voice answered.
"Me."
I turned.
A little girl—maybe nine—stood behind the forge wall, eyes wide, clutching a small toy to her chest.
She must've been hiding. The pirate would've found her.
I exhaled and nodded once.
"…Get to the shelter."
She did.
And I stood there a little longer.
Not proud. Not confident. Still scared, honestly.
But for the second time today—
I didn't run.