The command center’s sofa was winning. Jin had tried six different positions, and each one made his spine question his life choices. The synthetic leather squeaked with every movent, like it was mocking him.
"Can’t sleep?"
Scarlett stood in the doorway, still in training gear despite it being past 0200. Of course she was. Her twin swords were strapped to her back even at this hour—always ready.
"My room’s..." Jin gestured vaguely. "A ss."
"I saw." She moved into the room, grabbed a chair, spun it backward and sat. "You okay?"
Jin sat up, rubbing his face. "She built a nest. Blankets and pillows and... I don’t even know what so of that stuff is."
Scarlett raised an eyebrow. "Did she really try to schedule baby-making days?"
"Please don’t remind ." Jin ran a hand through his hair. "She had a calendar. Little hearts on specific dates."
A small smile crossed Scarlett’s face, just a flicker. "Your face when she suggested ’optimal conception tis’ was priceless."
"That’s not funny."
"It’s a little funny." She pulled out a water bottle, took a sip, and handed it over. "We’ll figure out the Eve situation. Eventually."
They sat in the almost-quiet. The vault humd—life support systems, recyclers, the machinery that kept them alive.
"Hey, Scarlett?"
"Mm?"
"Can I tell you sothing? Without you going into tactical-assessnt mode?"
She tilted her head. "That’s basically how I process everything."
"I know, but—" Jin stopped and started again. "Sothing’s happening to . Inside. To ."
"Okay."
"That’s it? Okay?"
"You want to panic? Pull out my swords?" She leaned back. "Talk. I’m listening."
Jin stared at the water bottle in his hands. "I’m changing. My personality. I used to be softer. Now I’m... more worried about everything. And sotis I just don’t care. When those crawlers attacked yesterday—part of was scared, but another part felt satisfied when the crawlers’ flesh was cut. That’s not normal."
"No. It’s not."
"And the way I’ve been fighting. I know moves I never learned. I say things that don’t sound like ." He looked up. "What if I wake up one day and I’m not anymore?"
Scarlett was quiet for a mont, her tactical brain clearly analyzing. Then: "My mother used to say we’re different people throughout life. The person you were at ten isn’t who you were at fifteen—won’t be who you are at twenty."
"This is different."
"Is it? You got shoved into this situation—monsters outside, asked to save humanity. That would change anyone."
"But what if I beco sothing bad?"
"Then we stop you."
The matter-of-fact way she said it made Jin’s chest tighten. "Just like that?"
"Just like that." She stood and stretched. "But Jin? I don’t think you will."
"Why?"
"Because truly bad people don’t worry about becoming bad. They just beco bad." She paused at the door. "The fact that you’re scared of changing ans you’re still you. The day you stop caring about that fear is the day we worry."
"That’s... weirdly comforting."
"I have my monts." She glanced back. "Get so sleep."
She left. "Goodnight, Jin."
"Night, Scarlett."
The couch squeaked as Jin shifted, and suddenly silence hit him—not the vault’s chanical hush, but the other silence: the one inside his head.
"Asha?"
Nothing.
Jin sat up, suddenly fully awake. When was the last ti he’d heard her? Not since... the mory—his mother’s death. The Entity had shown him things he’d buried so deep even he hadn’t known they were there.
"Asha, co on. Status report? Lecture about sothing... anything?"
Silence.
He tried to pull up his HUD—the familiar overlay that tracked his stats, showed his HP, monitored his affinities. Nothing. Not even a flicker.
"Affinity check," he said aloud, feeling stupid but desperate.
No windows appeared. No asurents of how Sera felt about him, no Clara trust tric, not even Shūi’s probably concerning obsession indicator.
His hands were shaking. Tears welled. "Asha, I’m sorry. I’m sorry I didn’t listen better. Please co back."
"Asha, please. I need you." His voice cracked. "I know I complain about your lectures, but I miss them. I miss you."
He closed his eyes, trying to rember the last thing she’d said.
*Looking for your little helper?* The Entity’s voice, amused.
"What did you do to her?" Jin’s hands clenched.
*Nothing. She’s... sleeping.*
"Bring her back."
*No.*
"That’s not—you can’t just—"
*I can. She’s been quiet since I showed you your mother’s death, hasn’t she? You only noticed now.*
Jin’s chest tightened. Asha had been annoying—constant lectures about diet, sleep, combat technique. But she’d also been there: his guide in this new world, his friend.
"Why?"
*Because she’d interfere with what I need to show you. She thinks she understands what I am. She doesn’t.*
*I’m going to show you the Tsurugi line.*
Jin lay back down; the couch felt even less comfortable. "S-she’s really okay?"
*I told you: she’s sleeping.*
Jin closed his eyes, lonelier than since he woke from cryo. *Scared?* the Entity asked.
"Yeah," Jin whispered. "I am."
*I’m going to show you everything. Twenty-seven generations of Tsurugi blood, all carrying pieces of what I am.*
"What you are?"
*What we are.*
The darkness behind Jin’s eyelids shifted.
"Wait—"
*Too late.*
The world dissolved. The couch, the command center, even the sense of his own body—all of it faded.
*Watch,* the Entity commanded, voice younger, hungrier. *Watch and understand what founded the Tsurugi line.*
Jin’s last coherent thought before the past swallowed him was simple and desperate:
*Asha, if you can hear this, please co back. I’m sorry I didn’t listen. Please.*
There was no answer. Only the sensation of falling backward through ti, and the terrifying silence where a friend’s voice should have been.
---
Entity’s POV
For nine centuries I drifted through the world without form—pure consciousness observing humanity’s brief, passionate existence. At first their lives seed aningless from my eternal perspective. But patterns erged, and nowhere were they more captivating than in the art of the sword.
Japan beca my classroom. The samurai era called to with its devotion to the blade. There was sothing about their commitnt that fascinated my formless essence.
I rember the great masters. Minamoto no Yoshitsune moved like flowing water even in battle’s heat. I watched how his blade beca an extension of his will—how he practiced the sa cuts thousands of tis until muscle mory transcended thought.
As decades turned to centuries, I drifted from dojo to battlefield, observing countless swordsn. From Miyamoto Musashi I learned Niten Ichi-ryū—the harmony of two blades. His Book of Five Rings transcended combat; it revealed strategies about perception and conflict’s nature.
"The way of the warrior is resolute acceptance of death," he wrote, and I felt that truth without a body to die.
I absorbed techniques through observation. When a master demonstrated a cut, I comprehended its physics—the angle, force, balance required. I learned biochanics: the precise alignnts that make a technique effective. More importantly, I grasped the spirit behind the movents.
There was beauty when a swordsman was truly connected to the blade—a harmony of body and steel that transcended violence.
I watched schools develop—Ittō-ryū, Shinkage-ryū, Tenshin Shōden Katori Shintō-ryū—each with its philosophy. The sword demanded respect, skill, and understanding. In its polished steel a swordsman saw their true self—fears, doubts, resolve. Mastering the sword ant mastering oneself.
Over ti I collected techniques like precious stones: cuts, stances, philosophies. Without a body to practice, I observed, analyzed, and comprehended. I learned the difference between cutting and slashing, between iaijutsu’s quick draw and kenjutsu’s deliberate strike. Often the most effective moves were the simplest: a properly executed straight cut could defeat elaborate flourishes. The key wasn’t complexity but perfection.
Different styles reflected life philosophies—directness and efficiency in straight lines, or circular motions that redirected force. The sword was a way of understanding conflict, harmony, and reality.
I watched swordsn ditate before practice, clearing their minds. I observed kata—choreographed patterns repeated until movents beca part of being. The sword demanded total presence; a mont’s distraction could an death. Within that demand I saw enlightennt—forced, brutal awareness.
As centuries passed, my understanding deepened: balance, timing, distance, intent—principles that transcended any single school. The greatest masters moved with no wasted motion; every shift of weight, turn of hip, and angle of blade served a purpose.
The blade taught embodint—how a body moves, how hands hold, how will acts. The sword beca a bridge between physical and spiritual, action and intention, life and death. Through it I found purpose, and for the first ti in my long existence, I wanted to answer the blade’s call.
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