“Waking up to food on the table isn’t so bad after all,” he said, settling down at the dining table after washing his face.

The dish I’d prepared wasn’t anything fancy, but it was enough. I hadn’t planned on eating with him—I was ready to leave—but he invited me to join him for breakfast. I couldn’t think of a good reason to refuse, and honestly, I needed the energy. Walking through this forest again wouldn’t be a walk in the park.

He took a bite of the scrambled eggs, chewing thoughtfully before glancing up. “Where did you get these eggs?” he asked, pointing at the plate.

I gestured with my chin toward the kitchen shelf where I’d found them. “Over there, sir.”

He nodded, continuing to eat. “Huh. I thought I was out of chicken eggs,” he muttered, scratching his head. Then he froze mid-bite, coughed.

I jumped up, grabbing a mug of water from the kitchen, and handed it to him.

“Thanks,” he said, lifting the mug in appreciation after taking a sip.

This was the least I could do to repay his kindness. He’d given me shelter and food, so it only felt right to give something back—even if all I could manage right now was cooking and cleaning. It wasn’t much, but I hoped it lightened his load for the day.

I didn’t mind, really. In my past life, chores had been second nature. After school, I’d come home to a house that needed cleaning because my mom worked overnight shifts, and my dad had spiraled into drinking after accusing her of cheating. I’d taken it upon myself to keep the house in order—not just for my sake but to keep it from falling apart entirely.

It felt strangely natural to slip into that role again, even here.

"I completely forgot to ask yesterday, but how old are you now?" he asked suddenly, pausing between bites.

"I'm 21, sir," I replied without hesitation.

He gave me a curious look, the kind that said he was putting pieces together in his head. "Did you ever attend the academy in Neopatras?"

Did I? According to the fragmented memories of this body, yes, I did. But why was it so hard to access them? It felt like digging through fog. How could I learn more about this person—me?

Then it appeared once again when I desperately needed it.

[You can trigger the "help" screen by saying "appear" in your mind.]

Oh, so this is what’s been activating in the corner of my thoughts! All I have to do is think the word?

《Appear》 I thought, and like magic, a screen materialized in my mind.

[Do you have any questions?]

I almost said my question out loud but caught myself just in time. He was still watching me, patiently waiting for an answer.

《Give me the educational background of this body》

The screen shifted, displaying the details.

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[Zachary Hale]

[21 years old]

[Educational Information]

• Studied at Neopatras Academy of Knowledge

• Enrolled in the Swordsmanship course at 18 years old

• Failed the Swordsmanship course and switched programs

• Completed the Artisan course at 21 years old

----------------------------------------

So, he—I—failed swordsmanship and pivoted to… artisan? What even is that? Some kind of an artist? Maybe.

《What is artisan?》

----------------------------------------

[Artisan]

Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

A skilled craft worker who makes or creates material objects, partly or entirely by hand.

[Artisan Course at Neopatras Academy]

Focused on teaching painting, sculpting, and various handcrafted arts.

----------------------------------------

A completely different path. This guy shifted from wielding swords to wielding paintbrushes.

I smiled and answered aloud, "Yes, I attended Neopatras Academy."

His face lit up with a smile. "Oh? And did you graduate?"

"I graduated this year and I took Artisan course."

His smile widened, clearly entertained. "An artisan? And now you’re seeking to get stronger? That’s… a unique path."

He wasn’t wrong.

I grinned. "I figured it couldn’t hurt to be good with both a blade and my hands."

He laughed, clearly amused. "That’s a great ambition," he said, taking a sip from his mug.

The truth was, I didn’t know much about either. I’d never even held a real sword in my past life, let alone used one. As for creating art? Forget about it. Painting, sculpting—those weren’t my things either. Sure, I knew of famous works back on Earth—imitations of masterpieces by renowned painters and sculptors—but that was it. Still, I figured it wasn’t so bad to pick up new skills in this life. The more you learn, the more doors open. Right?

But the conversation felt a little one-sided. Maybe I needed to shift the focus. "What about you, Mister Roran? Why are you in the middle of a deep forest?"

He paused, looking down at the table before meeting my eyes again with a small smile. "This might sound foolish to you, but I did what my master did."

"Your master?" I asked, intrigued.

He nodded slowly. "Before he passed, he separated himself from the noise of the world. He came here to understand himself better, to find peace, and… well, he died in the forest. Alone."

The story carried a weight of sadness, but the way Roran’s eyes lit up as he spoke gave it a strange sense of joy. It was like he took pride in his master’s journey and its outcome.

"When I found him," Roran continued, "his final words to me were: ‘I came here searching for answers but found something better: the silence that let me hear my own heart.’" He scratched his nose, smiling wistfully. "He said that, and he just… smiled at me. He looked so happy, even in his last moments. No tears, no regret. But me? I was the one crying."

His smile never wavered, even as he recounted the moment.

I sat quietly, trying to process his words. It took me a while, but eventually, I started to understand. Death will come for all of us—it’s inevitable. But the point isn’t to wait for it, sitting idle or wallowing in fear. It’s to use the time we have to do something meaningful, something that brings us peace or joy before we leave this world.

Roran’s master didn’t just accept death—he embraced it, but only after finding what truly mattered to him. And maybe that’s the real lesson.

I was dumbfounded.

Hearing those words stirred something deep inside me, something I’d never confronted before. In my past life, I didn’t fight for anything. I let myself be controlled, thinking I deserved it—that every failure, every hardship, was my burden to bear. My mindset was fixed, unchanging, and I wasted my youth believing I had no time or power to change. I died without ever realizing I had the chance to rewrite my fate. It took courage to fight against death, but even more to fight for life.

I stood there, silent and in awe, until something surged within me—an energy, a motivation, something electric. Without thinking, I stood up abruptly.

"Can you show me your martial arts once again, sir, before I depart?" I asked, bowing my head respectfully.

He looked at me, his expression shifting from surprise to something more serious. "My martial arts?"

I nodded. "Yes, sir."

For a moment, he seemed to hesitate, then shook his head with a smile. He stood up and walked over to a collection of wooden swords displayed near his room. "What about a spar? How does that sound?"

A spar. That was more than I’d asked for, and exactly what I wanted.

"Here," he said, handing me a light wooden sword. He walked outside and gestured for me to follow. "Let’s go."

The sun peeked through the trees as we stepped into the open, its golden rays filtering through the falling leaves. Shades of orange and red fluttered to the ground, a telltale sign of autumn. If this world’s seasons were anything like Earth’s, it must be September.

《Appear》

[What questions do you have?]

《What is the calendar system of this world compared to Earth?》

[Calendar System Compared to Your World:]

• Lunara (January)

• Frosthem (February)

• Thawren (March)

• Blumorne (April)

• Solvane (May)

• Ignira (June)

• Embrith (July)

• Voryn (August)

• Criseth (September)

• Duscan (October)

• Glacidor (November)

• Nivralis (December)

Seasons:

• Spring

• Summer

• Autumn

• Winter

Each month has 30 days (360 days total).

So, this world wasn’t entirely different from Earth. The names of the months were changed, sure, but it wasn’t so complicated that I couldn’t adjust quickly.

“Are you thinking of backing down?” Roran asked, raising his wooden sword with a grin.

I shook my head, snapping out of my thoughts. “Absolutely.”

His eyebrow arched, amused.

“No, sir,” I corrected, gripping my wooden sword tightly.

I stood there, waiting for him to make the first move. My plan was simple: stay alert and react. But then I blinked. And when I opened my eyes again, he was right in front of me, his sword raised.

I froze, completely caught off guard.

“Did you see me?” he asked, smiling as he stepped back casually.

I didn’t answer. I was too busy trying to process what had just happened. How the hell did he move that fast?

I couldn’t react. He moved like lightning.

“Come on, move forward, Zachary,” Roran called out, his tone firm but encouraging.

He didn’t need to tell me twice. My body moved on instinct, raising the wooden sword to a mid-guard position as I tried to time a good swing.

Swung!

As expected, my swing didn’t come close. He’d already stepped back, avoiding it with subtle ease.

I huffed, frustrated.

I swung again. And again. Wild, desperate movements, but none of them reached him.

Huff.

Each attempt drained me. My arms ached, my breaths came faster, and I was quickly realizing that this body wasn’t built for endurance. It wasn’t bad—neither athletic nor frail—but stamina? That was another story.

Roran wiped his forehead as he watched me struggle. “React too late, and you’ll bleed. React too early, and you’ll overreach. React just right, and you’ll survive.” He shifted into an offensive stance, the seriousness in his voice cutting through my exhaustion.

React just right. I repeated the phrase in my head. Could I? Against someone like him? He moved like a storm, faster than my eyes could track. But then, I stopped myself. This mindset wasn’t helping. If I kept labeling myself as weak, I’d only end up defeated before the fight even began.

“Let’s share a few swings,” he said, lunging toward me, his movements slower now—deliberate, measured.

I barely managed to block his strikes, dodging with clumsy steps. But I wasn’t just avoiding him; I was analyzing. Every swing, every movement, every angle. He was teaching me with every motion, and I was starting to see the patterns.

“Remember what I’ve told you,” he said, smiling as I stumbled but stayed upright.

I focused on his swings. Slowly, they became less of a blur and more like a map. The trajectory, the timing, even the force behind them—I was starting to predict them.

Swossssh!

This time, I parried. Barely, but I did it. His slow strike wasn’t just a test—it was training. And for the first time, I felt the satisfaction of getting it right. My chest swelled with pride as I realized I’d done it. It was like I’d been practicing swordsmanship for years.

Roran clapped a hand on my shoulder, beaming. “That’s it! You’re thinking right.”

But just as I opened my mouth to invite him for another spar, excitement bubbling in my chest, the world tilted. My knees buckled, and before I could react, everything went black.

[Warning: Your Bond is slowly dying.]