Moments ago, Miyamoto Musashi had been inside a cave, surrounded by the stillness of nature. Now, he found himself in an endless white void, stretching in all directions, with no horizon, no ground, no sky. Just an overwhelming, featureless expanse of nothingness. Everywhere he looked, there was nothing but pure whiteness.

However, he was not alone. Five other individuals stood nearby, each wearing expressions of confusion, their eyes scanning the unfamiliar space. Their clothing was as varied as their appearances, clearly from different times and places., Miyamoto Musashi quickly deduced that these were the others who had accepted the invitation like him. He wondered if they were as strong as him. Some of them looked weak.

But Miyamoto Musashi immediately discarded that thought, reminding himself never to judge someone’s strength by their appearance alone.

“You’re a damn fool if you underestimate someone. God knows how many I’ve seen meet an early death because of it,” Miyamoto Musashi inwardly chuckled.

Miyamoto Musashi recalled his younger years, many had laughed at him, dismissing him as nothing more than an arrogant, inexperienced boy—only to fail. He still remembered the look in their eyes when they realized their mistake.

He remembered how, at just thirteen, he had beaten a grown man to death, simply because the fool had assumed the boy was easy prey. But that fight had nearly cost him his life. It was only by sheer instinct that he had survived. Strength was not always what it seemed. Appearances meant nothing. It was a lesson he had taken to heart, one that had nearly cost him his own life.

As Miyamoto Musashi pondered, he suddenly became aware of his own voice—younger, smoother, untouched by age. His hands instinctively moved to his face, feeling every inch of his skin, then down to his clothing.

Something was wrong.

Looking at the floor, he noticed his reflection in the smooth, polished surface floor staring back at him. Crouching, he reached out to touch the cold, smooth surface floor beneath him. His reflection revealed a young, handsome man—tall, well-built, with striking whitish-pink eyes and hair of the same hue, tied back forming a flower-like shape also an accentuating undercut.

His attire resembled traditional Japanese clothing but with a modernized touch, leaving his chest, back, and waist partially exposed. A slight shiver ran down his spine—not from fear, but from exhilaration.

“What the—?! I’m young again!” Miyamoto Musashi’s eyes widened in disbelief. “My body feels incredible! I can’t believe this actually happened!”

Miyamoto Musashi clenched his fists, feeling the surge of strength coursing through him. His muscles—once dulled by age and sickness—were now vibrant, responsive, alive. Testing his newfound vigor, he leaped into the air, spun, and performed various movements with such ease. A rush of excitement flooded him, awakening something long dormant. A huge grin spread across Miyamoto Musashi's face as he stretched out his arms and spun his arms in circles, testing the range of motion he hadn’t felt in decades.

“Hah! I’m so full of energy! It’s been far too long since I could move like this!”

The excitement in his voice echoed through the endless white void. Full of excitement and pure energy to slash to whoever gets in his way.

A sudden laugh broke through the air. Miyamoto Musashi’s sharp instincts kicked in. He spun around, his eyes locking onto the source of the voice.

A below average height young blond man stood before him, dark blue highlights at the front of his hair. He wore sunglasses—though not over his eyes, but resting atop his forehead. Dual empty holsters were strapped to both sides of his waist, a camo pants also wearing a tight black t-shirt, his arms crossed casually over his chest, a wide grin stretching across his face.

“Amazing, ain’t it?” the man said, his voice dripping with amusement. “Feeling young again I can't believe it myself either. Well… I almost died pretty young...so I guess I cheated the system.” He laughed at his own misfortune, as if death itself had been nothing more than a mild inconvenience.

Miyamoto Musashi narrowed his eyes. His instincts flared. The man's posture was relaxed, but there was a confidence in his stance, a sharpness in his gaze. This man was no amateur.

Being wary, Miyamoto Musashi silently studied this young fellow before him. It was a habit that was formed in his dueling days to read someone's aura. In addition his intuition told him that man should not be underestimate.

The blond man’s grin widened, sensing Musashi’s caution.

“Strange clothing,” Miyamoto Musashi said finally, his voice calm but laced with curiosity. “You’re not Japanese. Where are you from, lad?” He questions with interest.

The man still has a smile on his face.

He chuckled. “Ain’t that bit rude? Shouldn’t ya introduce yourself first before askin’ questions?”

Miyamoto Musashi smirked. He could appreciate a man who knew how to provoke.

The blond man let out a short laugh.

”Heh, right sorry…” He crosses his arms above his chest. “The name's Miyamoto Musashi! I’m famous where I came from.”

A deliberate omission of his story. Let the other man figure it out himself.

The blond man let out a short laugh.

“Well then—nice to meetcha, super famous person.”

He extended a hand for a handshake.

“Well people called me Billy the Kid, nice to meetcha super famous person. I was famous where I came from, too.”

“Outside of Japan. This is getting interesting…” Miyamoto Musashi grins.

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But Miyamoto Musashi stared at the outstretched hand. An offering of respect? No… something else. He eyed Billy the Kid carefully, unsure of the gesture’s meaning. This wasn’t a custom he recognized.

Billy the Kid noticed the hesitation and raised an eyebrow. “What? Ain’t handshakes a thing where ya come from?”

Miyamoto Musashi still crossed his arms, choosing silence over admitting ignorance.

Billy the Kid chuckled, withdrawing his hand. “Y’know what? Forget about it. Wouldn’t wanna force a polite gesture on ya.” He gave a mocking shrug, his smirk unchanging. “Hehe.”

Miyamoto Musashi felt an odd sense of amusement. “Someone outside of Japan and probably lived in a different time or era. This is getting interesting!”

This man—this Billy the Kid—was no mere bystander. He was a challenger. And Miyamoto Musashi welcomed it as the beginning of something greater.

“HEY!”

A sudden shout echoed through the empty white void, breaking the moment between Miyamoto Musashi and Billy the Kid. Both men turned their heads toward the source of the voice.

A few meters away, two women stood facing each other in a tense exchange. One was sitting on the smooth floor, visibly startled, while the other stood over her with her hands on her hips, an unmistakable look of irritation on her face.

“Watch where you’re going, you brat!” the standing woman snapped. Her voice, fierce and commanding, held no patience for excuses.

The seated girl remained silent, her expression calm. Despite the scolding, she made no effort to look up at the woman, simply staring up at the floor.

Noticing the unresponsive girl, the older woman grabbed the younger girl’s left arm, attempting to pull her up.

Hey! Get up and say you’re sorry!” she ordered.

Musashi smirked at the scene. “Is this some form of bullying?” he mused

Miyamoto Musashi took a quick glance at Billy the Kid. The cowboy looked like a man waiting for something entertaining to unfold, debating whether to get involved or just sit back and watch.

But before either of them could decide, another presence entered the scene. An average height man walked toward the two women with a deliberate, unhurried stride. His posture radiated authority, the kind carried by someone accustomed to high standing.

Both Miyamoto Musashi and Billy the Kid narrow their eyes, silently sizing him up, especially Billy the Kid.

Billy’s grin faltered slightly. “He looks oddly familiar…” he thought to himself.

The approaching man was strikingly good looking, with silver-white hair that fell in slightly curled strands around his shoulders. His heterochromatic eyes—one black, the other white—were partially hidden behind a pair of sunglasses, their glint barely visible beneath the frames.

Draped over his shoulders was a long, military-style overcoat, exuding a regal air. Beneath it, he wore an elegant suit, its fine tailoring exposed at the chest area. The confidence in his stride, the effortless way he carried himself—it was clear this was a man who expected respect wherever he went.

He exhaled lightly before speaking.

“There’s no need to be so rude,” he said smoothly, addressing the irritated woman. “We were all summoned here unexpectedly. She only bumped into you—nothing worth making a scene.”

The blue-haired woman’s head snapped toward him almost towering over him, letting go of her grip on her. Her expression darkened with annoyance.

“Butt out of this, you silver-haired bastard!” she shot back, her voice carrying unmistakable hostility. “What? Do you have the hots for her!?”

Now that they got a proper look at her, all three took note of her striking features. She was tall and powerfully built, her deep sea-blue hair tied into a tight bun. Her onyx eyes gleamed like the night sky, intense and unwavering.

Her face was adorned with a bold pinkish-red eyeshadow, accentuating her fierce gaze. Her attire consisted of a traditional Chinese qipao, modified with pants, and long silk dark gloves that stretched just below her shoulders. On her left arm, a tattoo of a Chinese character stood out—the symbol for war.

Yet, despite the insult, the silver-haired man remained unbothered. He ignored her completely and instead approached the young girl still sitting on the floor. Without a word, he gracefully knelt, extending a hand toward her.

“Can you stand?” he asked, his tone gentle but firm.

The girl hesitated for only a moment before placing her small hand in his. While not directly looking at him. With effortless ease, he helped her up. She dusted herself off before offering him a polite nod, her expression remaining reserved.

“Thank you…” she murmured, her voice barely a whisper.

Keeping her gaze lowered, as if unsure of whether to meet his eyes.

Now standing, she appeared small and delicate, likely no older than 19. Her short raven-black hair, with one side covering her left eye. Her obsidian eyes held a soft intensity, as if hiding something unspoken.

She wore light armor—a combination of metal and cloth, protecting her arms, chest, and legs. It gleamed under the surrounding white light, giving her a somewhat ethereal appearance. Draped over her shoulders was a cape, nearly swallowing her small frame, concealing most of her body.

A quiet stillness followed.

Miyamoto Musashi, watching everything unfold, took a moment to process.

“One is a loud brute strength, the other with quiet discipline. And then him… that silver-haired man. He carries himself with dignity, yet there’s something intense and sharp about him.”

Billy the Kid, on the other hand, remained casual—but his grip tightened slightly against his holster.

“This just got a whole lot more interesting.”

None of them had been summoned here by accident. And whether they liked it or not, they were about to find out why.

Without warning, a sudden light erupted in the white void, far brighter than before.

The intensity of it was blinding, forcing everyone to raise their arms, shielding their eyes from the overwhelming radiance. The entire space—already an endless white—became even brighter, as if the very air itself had been set ablaze. For a brief moment, it was as though they were standing inside a star.

Then, just as quickly as it came, the light dimmed, allowing them to slowly lower their arms and re-adjust their vision. And there, floating before them, was the same white sphere of light—the Watcher.

It hovered in place, pulsing softly, its form neither solid nor fluid, yet undeniably present. It was a sight they had all seen once before—the entity that had appeared at the moment of their deaths, offering them an invitation.

The invitation to fight—to earn a second chance at life. And now, having accepted, they had all been summoned here—to this endless, empty white void. A voice—calm, steady, and without a true sense of warmth—filled the space around them.

“It is nice to meet all of you.”

The voice, though soothing, carried an eerie weight—almost artificial, yet just barely laced with something… something close to curiosity.

“I sincerely thank you all for accepting this grand opportunity.”

The words felt measured, carefully chosen. There was no true emotion, yet a faint trace of something deeper lurked beneath them. The Watcher pulsed, its glow flickering momentarily before it continued.

“Now, I will explain further… to what you are all about to do at the next moment.”

The void around them remained silent, yet an unspoken pressure settled upon the group.

They could all feel it—this moment would determine everything.

Unbeknownst to them, they had overlooked someone. An extra presence lingered among them—silent, unnoticed, and entirely unbothered.

Despite his imposing size, no one had acknowledged him. Perhaps it was due to the unnatural stillness he exuded, or the fact that he had remained completely motionless since their arrival.

He sat cross-legged on the smooth, featureless cold floor, his massive frame hunched forward ever so slightly. His muscles bulged beneath his skin, his sheer physical presence resembling that of a war god sculpted from stone.

His attire was minimal yet regal, a mix of raw tribal tradition. A sleeveless, puffed-up jacket wrapped around his broad shoulders, leaving his powerful arms bare, exposing an intricate web of tribal tattoos that covered his entire body.

A large, decorated loincloth draped over his legs, concealing his lower half. However, there was nothing beneath it, his form otherwise untouched by excess armor or clothing—only golden jewelry adorned his body.

Thick, golden bracelets rested against his wrists, many golden necklaces hung around his neck, and a single earring glimmered in one ear, catching the ambient light of the white endless void. A tribal headband rested atop his forehead, barely holding back his long, messy onyx-colored hair, which cascaded freely down his back and over his shoulders.

From the moment he had arrived, he had been facing away from the group, his massive form hunched over in a meditative posture.

To anyone else, he would have appeared to be asleep.

But at the very moment the Watcher arrived, his eyes cracked open ever so slightly—white, piercing, and unreadable—before they slowly closed once more.

He had acknowledged it. And yet, he did not move.

While the others stood with anticipation, curiosity, or caution, he remained completely still, as if the entire event did not concern him in the slightest, this forgotten titan simply…

Slept.