My consciousness snapped like a cord yanked from its socket.
Blackness. Silence. Then...
A voice. Mechanical, yet oddly calm.
"Subject Lucien... no, Subject Kael R. IV. Synchronization complete. You are now fully downloaded inside this body."
I opened my eyes.
No, not my eyes. Lucien's.
My hands were trembling—smaller than I remembered. The fingers were pale, skinny, brittle. This wasn't the body I used to have. I felt like a pilot inside a paper aircraft. Weak. Hungry. Fourteen years old at most.
"Where am I?"
"You are in Sector-3 of Veyrax Eastern Borderland. Town name: Draxil. Population: 12,080. Danger rating: 3.5 stars."
The AI spoke like it was reading a textbook.
"What are you? I pretty sure this isn't the same brat that talk to me before
"I am the Catalyst Intelligence Interface. CI-01. You may call me 'Kai' if that suits your human preference. My purpose is to assist your integration and survival in this timeline."
"Timeline?"
"A divergence created upon contact with the Starcore Event."
My head throbbed. Memory fragments weren't mine but now somehow were. The name Lucien echoed. His hunger. His fear. His resentment. Then a floodgate opened—memories like waves crashing through my skull.
And with them, information.
"Eastborn the 14th," I muttered.
"Correct," Kai replied. "The strongest warrior of the eastern territories. Veyrax Kingdom asset. Currently assigned to Draxil."
I remembered the man. Towering. Cold eyes. A warrior of the Exo-Sword discipline. Lucien had feared him. So did I.
"He's here?"
"Indeed."
As if on cue, my vision blurred. A flash of steel. A clean stroke. No warning. A sword arced toward my ribs.
Instinct screamed.
I dove, arm reaching for the hilt of a sword—a dull training blade Lucien used for odd jobs. The strike landed.
The contact echoed like thunder. My ears rang. My sword shattered like glass.
And yet...
I was alive.
The giant man pulled back.
"Better than expected for a poor orphan," he said without emotion. "I'll let you go today."
He turned and walked away. I collapsed. My breath ragged. Knees shaking.
Kai's voice returned. "You survived a class-A Exo-Sword strike. Not bad."
"That... that was a test?"
"Welcome to your new life. You are now Kael Revenant the Fourth."
---
A month passed.
I tried calling out to Kai every day. No response.
So I focused on surviving. Training.
Lucien's body was frail, but mine now. I couldn't let weakness define me. I jogged around the outskirts of Draxil until my lungs begged for mercy. I lifted crates for vendors. Did pushups in the mud. Anything to build strength.
But I needed more than muscle.
I needed knowledge.
And for that? Money.
Problem: I had none.
So, I did something I wasn't proud of.
I waited outside a martial arts dojo—a fancy one. Wealthy students trained there, pretending to be warriors. I found an injured one limping alone.
A kitchen knife. A quick scare. A pouch of credits. Not much, but enough.
I ran to the local library, a rusted building sandwiched between junk vendors. Inside, I found dusty shelves and a single old man with owl eyes.
"Need something, boy?"
I slammed the pouch on the desk. "I want books. Swords. History. Techniques."
He squinted. "You look barely fifteen. Can you even read ancient Veyratic?"
"I'll learn."
He hesitated. Then sighed. "The sword manuals are expensive. But you seem desperate, not stupid. I'll grant you access to the general archives. Free membership."
My heart jumped.
He handed me a chipped metal card. "Don't waste it."
---
I read until my eyes bled. The more I read, the more I realized how little I knew.
The world wasn't like the one I remembered.
200 years ago, in the decade between 2040 and 2050, the skies split open.
An asteroid struck Earth.
Inside it? A Starcore.
A self-sustaining fusion core of neutron-level energy. It didn't survive impact.
It exploded in the upper atmosphere.
Not with fire, but mutation.
The radiation didn't kill. It changed. Humanity itself transformed. Each person now carried a fraction of that stellar power within. Not visible. Not understood.
But powerful.
People became reactors. Weak ones, yes, but reactors nonetheless. Their bodies began to generate energy—pure electricity.
That's when exoskeletons were born.
Armor connected to the body, pulling energy directly from the user's internal generator. Soldiers became walking fortresses. Guns? Useless. Bullets couldn't pierce the kinetic fields or hardened armor.
So humanity returned to an ancient tool: swords.
With one major difference.
Each blade now channeled energy. Blade styles evolved. Systems were codified.
The four major disciplines emerged.
But that... that was only the beginning.
---
The pages of the book were worn, and they smelled like dust, steel, and old blood. I didn't know if that was my imagination—or if these styles had actually bled history into the ink.
I ran my fingers along the curled edge of the page. The letters weren't printed. They were etched, almost carved into the parchment like scars.
"Exosword – Kazakov Veyrax."
The name struck something in my chest. That same weird feeling I got whenever someone said "Veyrax" with awe, or when old men whispered it like a prayer or a curse.
But I wasn't looking for a name. I was looking for a sword that made sense.
I kept reading.
"Dragon Clash – a technique to close distance, compressing energy into the lower exoskeleton to propel the user one meter forward, sacrificing the stance to gain a sound-breaking strike."
I paused. One meter forward? Break the stance? Why would you ever throw yourself into a slash like that?
Then I read it again. No—you don't throw yourself into the slash. You break the stance on purpose. Use the fall. Use the chaos. Use momentum.
I set the book down, stepped onto the dirt training square behind the barracks, and drew my blade.
It wasn't an Exosword. Just a training longsword, dulled from use. But I imagined it had the weight.
I crouched low. Bent my knees. Imagined pressure in my calves and thighs like coiled hydraulics.
I leaped.
Well—stumbled forward a bit and nearly fell on my face.
"Again."
I tried five more times. Each time I got a little closer. Until my blade sang through the air with the sound of compressed air slamming behind it. I could feel it. Not speed. Weight becoming velocity.
Dragon Clash.
I grinned.
Then I tried Folded Wings—the second technique.
It was about disarming. Not disarming gently. Lethal force. A sweep that took both hands. A parabolic swing, high then low, like wings folding in.
I tried to mimic it. Left shoulder forward, sword raised. Then I let it fall in a wide arc—
—but the follow-through felt off. Too heavy, too slow.
Again.
This time, I imagined it. The enemy's wrists, vulnerable as they swung high. My blade becoming air—no resistance, just motion.
The blade whipped down, curved in a perfect half-moon. I imagined hands falling.
I didn't like the image.
But I respected it.
The third was Sudden Heat. Heat the blade with electricity? That was impossible. I had no power armor. No tech.
Still, I mimicked the motion. Sword spinning in a tight circle. If you moved it fast enough, heat might come. Or maybe it was metaphor. Heat meant focus.
I began turning slowly, rotating the sword like a wheel in front of me. I imagined it melting steel.
Then came the fourth: Flash Cut.
The words were simple: "Swing the sword with all energy you have. With the speed of light."
Bullshit. But something in me clenched anyway.
I imagined doing it. I imagined every nerve in my body igniting at once. Like lightning passed through me and my sword was the only way out.
I didn't swing.
I just stood there, holding the pose.
And in that moment, I felt it.
That's when the voice inside whispered: "You're not ready. But you could be."
---
The next style was… stranger.
Armoured Sword.
Not fast. Not flashy. But calm. Defensive.
It made me think of my father. The way he used to block blows from bullies using just his forearm. How he never lashed out—but never took a second hit either.
"Fluid Sword – if mastered, the user can bend any swing, redirect any path."
I raised my blade, exhaled, and swung slow.
Left. Then midair—I twisted my wrist and changed the arc.
It wobbled. Felt awkward.
But I could see it. Potential.
I spent ten minutes just practicing that curve. Making the sword flow like water. Not a strike. A motion.
Canvas Block was next.
That one was art. Literally. "Treat your enemy as a canvas, your sword as the brush," it said.
Every parry had to lead into a counterstroke. No wasted effort.
I imagined three enemies attacking at once. I swung my sword as if I was painting a spiral. First block—high. Second—low. Third—backhand parry with a twist.
Then counter. Elbow, rib, neck.
I was painting them into place.
God Breathe was last.
I spun the sword in front of me like a shield. Light from the dusk caught the blade in flickers. My arms ached. My breath shortened.
But after a minute, I felt it. Momentum. Redirection.
Nothing could touch me. For two seconds—I was invincible.
---
Then came the third style.
Swiftsword.
I almost laughed. I wasn't built for grace. My muscles were too stiff. My footwork too slow.
But I had to try.
Ghost Strike was ridiculous. Ten to a hundred times the speed of sound? That's impossible.
Still—I raised my imaginary rapier. Light grip. Short wrist flick.
I jabbed forward.
The wind didn't move.
But I imagined it did. A straight line. One kill point.
I jabbed again. This time faster.
Snowfall was next. Same jab. But rapid fire.
I practiced in place, rapid thrusts so quick my arms blurred. I lost count after thirty. My forearms burned. My lungs tightened.
But it felt good.
Vacuum Shot was stupidly complex. Create a vortex with air using rapid jabs, then launch a ghost strike at the tip?
How the hell would anyone do that?
I laughed.
Then tried anyway.
I jabbed in a cone. One-two-three-four. Changing angles. Pushing the air, slicing around me like I was carving a tunnel.
Then I imagined the cone taking form. An invisible funnel of destruction.
Final strike: one jab at the center.
In my mind, the cone exploded outward.
I dropped to my knees, dizzy from exertion.
"Snowflake…"
One jab. Total destruction. Pure silence.
It was beautiful.
---
Finally, I opened the last section.
Breakersword.
The only one that felt… familiar.
It wasn't about elegance or speed. It was about winning.
About control.
Disarm. Discharge. Nonlethal Cut.
Every move designed to disable, not kill.
This was the sword of soldiers. Lawbringers. Real fighters.
But the fourth technique?
Sudden Death.
Use everything in the environment. Attack from every direction.
I didn't need to imagine that one. I'd seen it.
My brother used to fight like that—throwing rocks, using pipes, trapping people between doors. Cheating, they called it.
He called it survival.
I looked around the yard.
Stick. Rope. Broken plank. Sand.
I picked up everything I could. Imagined using it.
One swing from above. One kick from below. A tripwire to the west. A plank flying from the east. Throw a rock to distract from the north.
Then strike from the south with the sword.
Sudden Death.
I dropped everything and exhaled.
Sweat poured down my back. My lungs were fire.
But I felt it.
This wasn't just swordplay.
This was me, learning to speak a language older than kings.
The book wasn't a manual.
It was a door.
And I'd just stepped through it.
---
Kael stood in the dusk, alone, surrounded by dust and echoes. But in his mind, a hundred duels were already happening. And for the first time—he was winning.