The Swordsman Who Fell from the Sky

The sky was burning.

A thousand streaks of light tore through the clouds, raining fire across a field of broken blades. Amid the chaos stood a lone figure — white-haired, eyes as clear as ice, holding a katana that shimmered with dying energy. His name… was Gojo.

“Even if the heavens fall,” he whispered, his voice calm despite the storm, “my sword will not break.”

The ground cracked beneath his feet as he faced the tide of dark mages — a hundred strong, chanting spells that rippled through the air like thunder. Gojo’s blade glowed with fierce light.

“Sword Art Technique… Number 10 — Final Dawn Strike!”

A white arc sliced through the night. Then — silence.
The battlefield vanished into light.

And just like that… the swordsman’s story should have ended.

But destiny had other plans.

When Gojo opened his eyes, he was lying on a grassy hill under two suns. The wind smelled of flowers and salt, and the air pulsed with mana.

“…Where am I?”

He looked down — no wounds, no blood. His sword rested beside him, pristine. Around him, the land stretched wide — glowing forests, floating islands, and crystal rivers.

A new world.

He stood slowly, his grip firm on his blade. “So… this is reincarnation,” he muttered. “A world ruled by magic, huh?”

In the distance, children practiced small spells, their palms glowing with color. Gojo watched quietly. Then one of the children tripped, crying as older mages laughed at him.

Gojo walked over and placed a hand gently on the boy’s head.
“Hey,” he said softly, “even weak magic has meaning. Don’t give up.”

The boy sniffled, nodding.
The surrounding mages frowned, but Gojo turned away — his white cloak fluttering in the wind.

“Magic or not,” he whispered, “a blade that protects… still has worth.”

That night, Gojo found an old inn at the edge of a small village. The keeper, a kind man named Duran, offered him shelter and a meal. A small boy, Theo, peeked from behind the counter, curious but shy.

Gojo smiled. “Don’t worry, I don’t bite.”

Theo grinned, finally stepping out. The swordsman and the boy spoke until midnight, laughter echoing through the wooden walls. For the first time since his reincarnation, Gojo felt peace.

But peace never lasts.

The next morning, a group of robed men stormed the village — mages from the Council, demanding tribute. Gojo’s hand instinctively rested on his sword.

When the leader struck Theo across the face, something inside Gojo snapped.
He stepped forward, eyes cold as steel.

“Listen, you bastard,” he said, voice low and deadly. “Show some kindness — especially to children.”

The leader sneered. “And who are you to command a mage?”

Gojo’s sword gleamed. “A swordsman.”

“Sword Art Technique Number 1 — Direct Strike!”

In a flash of light, the mage’s staff split in two. The others stumbled back, stunned.
Gojo sheathed his blade slowly, eyes burning with quiet fury.

From that moment, whispers spread across the land —
A swordsman who could slay magic itself had appeared.

And somewhere far away, within the glowing towers of the Mage Council, an old man known as the Great Sage opened his eyes.

“A swordsman who resists magic…,” he murmured, “perhaps the prophecy wasn’t a myth after all.”