Alex was dying.

It wasn't exactly the grand exit he had envisioned, with the triumphant sounds of victory resounding in his ears. No, instead he pressed his back against the graffiti-scarred brick wall of the alleyway, the stench of rotting garbage mingling with the coppery smell of his own blood. The place reeked of rot and dampness. It was far from the polished floors and scented air of the family dojo, where he had honed his skills in the way of the sword since childhood..

His thoughts faded, surged and then faded again as he lay there; half in this world, half in the next, contemplating the futility of his existence while simultaneously wishing he had achieved something remotely noteworthy on the international stage. Winning a couple of Local championships, tournaments, and bouts with the sword seemed like nothing in the face of his impending demise. He sighed as he reviewed the life rapidly flashing before his eyes, with an unsettling mix of scorn and regret. He realised something.

For most of his life, he had hardly ever left his city. Hardly ever seen the world.

But then it hadn’t mattered, because the world had come to him. His family's dojo had been a hub, a magnet that pulled in sword practitioners from across the nation and even the globe. A historical site, steeped in the history of the sword. Champions at the local, national, and even international levels often visited.

And Alex had challenged all of them.

And promptly lost. Well, only the first one. But his first and only defeat had taught him the consequence of straying from the sword. It had caused him to delve deeper into its depths than he’d thought possible, only to realize he had just scratched the surface. He had trained for a year after that. Not simply training his body, but his mind, his combat philosophies, and his muscle memory. He lived and breathed the sword, he would wake with a stab; wondering how best to counter any swing, and sleep slashing his hands, meditating on the most efficient forms of combat. For a year he trained, never challenging any new visitors. But when he felt ready, when he did challenge them, he never lost again.

For decades.

He would always ask for a lesson, or a sparring session. Then promptly begin to test their skills, controlling the pace of the battle, slowly increasing his tempo until he overwhelmed them.

And so they came, sparred, and left defeated. Famous swordsmen left humbled by their visits. Eventually, he became an urban legend of sorts. A whispered rumour, which often led to people seeking him out, aiming to challenge the unbeatable Ironwood. And still they lost, no opponent having ever forced him to reach beyond his limits.

His blade had never tasted defeat.

His family had already been renowned swordmasters, their dojo a temple visited by many. But now, they all wanted to visit not just the country’s greatest sword family, but its rumored master.

He'd reveled in the applause, the praise ringing within the four walls of his family dojo—confined to a city. They'd whispered "genius" so many times that he'd started to believe it. Why strain? Why try, when minimal effort always resulted in his success? Why push himself when he was already the best?

He had found nothing challenging. And it was only now on his deathbed that he’d realised how much it had stifled his potential. He had plateaued, never seeking to improve.

“The G word” His parched lips moved derisively, but no sound emerged. His palm pressed against his wound in a futile attempt to stay alive, for even a second longer. Or at least, long enough for an ambulance to arrive. Warm liquid oozed between his fingers, painting them a deep scarlet. A metallic taste invaded his mouth as he coughed, splattering specks of blood on the pavement.

His eyelids felt like lead, but Alex resisted the urge to close them.

The best, beaten by a scrub. He laughed at the irony despite the pain. All his life, he’d known nobody could beat him with a blade. And it was true, but because of that fact he had been too lazy.

And too confident.

His life had been dedicated to the way of the sword, with his trusty practice blade as his loyal companion. He had even dabbled in boxing and Muay Thai, excelling effortlessly in both. But they did not compare to the allure of the sword, where a single blow could decide a person's fate. The sword represented true combat. From the moment he could walk, his grandfather, a master, had drilled him with the precision of a military sergeant, imparting wisdom with the seriousness of a philosophy professor. They'd spend hours in the dojo, their wooden swords clashing like an erratic symphony. It was in those moments that Alex felt alive, his purpose defined by the strike of the bamboo sword.

Kenjutsu, Battojutsu, Koryu, and his passion; Kendo.

Battojutsu focused on a single blow, Kenjutsu was geared toward real battle; and koryu, preserved ancient martial techniques often designed for killing blows. Each style had its distinct combat advantages, honing different facets of his swordsmanship.

But to Alex, Kendo was special, and could be combined with almost any sword style. Kendo was the art of technique and form, where the path to true mastery lay.

Studying these styles under his grandfather's tutelage, Alex had blossomed into a formidable swordsman. Countless hours were spent in the dojo, and countless local competitions were won effortlessly. Every day both he and his grandfather would practice, their wooden training blades clashing with unyielding determination. Each strike, each parry, reaffirmed their shared commitment and the unspoken bond that flowed through their blood, until his grandfather was too old to continue, and even then they would instead discuss sword theory by his bedside.

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Together, they had embarked on a lifelong journey, master and apprentice, passing down the ancient art of the sword from one generation to the next. Kendo taught him discipline, patience, and the pursuit of perfection. The sword was a reflection of his character.

But Kendo couldn’t stop the bullet.

In the present moment, as death crept closer, Alex’s mind went back to the events that had led to his untimely demise.

***

Alex had felt a buzz of excited anticipation grip him as he stood in a dimly lit alleyway, his fingers closing around the hilt of his favorite blade, hidden within its special case. Images of the upcoming Kendo world championship filled his mind. The crowd, the atmosphere, his battojutsu demonstration afterward—would they have him slice through a tatami mat or perhaps a bamboo stalk? He glanced at his specialized bag, where his wooden competition blades lay. No matter the material, he felt assured; today would be a good day.

The thought had stayed with him, right up until he found himself standing still, staring at two muggers blocking his path. One of them wielding a knife.

Regret had washed over him at that moment. This alley was a shortcut, a risk he'd taken due to overconfidence and haste. He really knew he shouldn’t have taken this route. But he was just too eager to win the title of the worlds best. He should’ve won it years ago, really. But it had taken his grandfathers fading health to finally spur him to action. It had reminded him of the frailty of life, and the inevitability of aging. No matter how great, or skilled he was, if he never achieved anything with his greatness, talent, and undisputed technique, then did they even really matter? Would they be remembered? Or was all of his training and insight wasted? No, he would not allow it. He would win this championship with ease. Not just for himself, but for his grandfather.

That train of thought coupled with the rush of finally leaving his city had made him impatient, sloppy. He thought it would’ve been safe. He was in the city center, after all; what were the chances of a mugging here? But then again, he’d faced countless surprise challenges to his unbeaten record.

He should’ve been prepared.

He had stood, then, in the dimly lit alley, his heart pounding with anticipation. The final match of the Kendo world championship was only hours away. Victory seemed within his grasp, the culmination of decades of dedication and relentless training. He tightened the grip on his favorite blade, ready to prove himself on the grand stage. He couldn’t imagine it would end with him staring into the barrel of a gun.

It had been a pair of muggers, they’d confronted him in the alleyway. For a brief moment he’d wondered if one of his competitors had decided to throw their pride away and ‘Nancy Kerrigan’ him; hire someone to prevent him from competing. He dismissed those thoughts and focused. The muggers had then demanded his phone, and his money. He’d refused, obviously. After all, a knife wasn’t that threatening, he had fought people with knives before. Theirs wasn’t even that big.

One of the muggers had reached for his competition blade, apparently not recognising it for what it was. Alex's grip tightened on the hilt on reflex. His body shifted back an inch, instinctively.

A mistake.

Spurred by his resistance, the mugggers both attacked.

His years of disciplined training in the arts of war had honed his body for most forms of combat. He had grown accustomed to ambushes from challengers desperate to end his urban legend.

He didn't expect these two to be a problem at all, he just hoped they wouldn't make him late.

He didn’t use one of the wooden swords, he needed them to win the championship. But it really didn't matter, his grandfather, and his countless battles had taught him the principles, drilled them into the essence of his being, and because of that his whole body was a weapon. A tall, somewhat stocky blade.

His lifetime of training urged his body to move with precision, parrying their clumsy attacks effortlessly. Blow after blow, he danced around their wild swings, his katana-like movements leaving them dazed and frustrated.

Alex sidestepped, avoiding a wild knife swing. Should he use his blade? No, best not to dull it before the demonstration. He rotated his body slightly, allowing another attacker's fist to sail harmlessly past his ear and over his shoulder. In one fluid motion, he stepped closer, ducking under the flying fist. As he moved, he twisted his fist into the mugger's sternum, channeling the man's own forward momentum against him. The impact was devastating. The mugger gasped for air, crumpling to the ground.

But the tide of the fight suddenly shifted. As Alex turned to face the remaining thug, his senses heightened. Why was the mugger so confident?

Something was off.

A flicker of movement caught his attention, and to his horror, he realised the mugger had drawn a gun.

The fact that the mugger had waited this long to draw his weapon made Alex’s gut churn. It implied experience. He had heard, from others, that a small percentage of experienced criminals altered their behavior to avoid capture. Not drawing the gun straight away implied he had committed this enough times to feel as if he didn’t need it, and drawing the gun implied that it wasn’t just a tool for intimidation; he was prepared to use it.

To Alex’s senses, the world stood still as the mugger took aim. Alex’ mind was a whir of possible actions and counters, but what could he do against a gun? At this distance? The only two real choices he had was to find cover, or tackle and disarm the guy.

So he decided to do both.

He drew his blade and launched it at his assailant's throat while diving behind a metal container, all in one swift movement.

Bang.

The sound of the gunshot shattered the air, a sharp crack that echoed through the alley. Pain seared through Alex's body as the bullet found its mark. Shock and disbelief washed over him as he crumpled to the ground, the world spun in all directions and Alex heard a thud, as across the way, the gunman fell, and lay motionless, a blade lodged in his throat. In the distance, the wail of police sirens grew louder. Alex knew before he even felt it that he’d been hit. But at least the guy who did it wouldn't live to tell the tale.

He didn’t think he’d be able to live with the embarrassment. Or die with it, for that matter.

Hot, piercing pain erupted in his chest. He touched the wound, his fingers coming away red.

Bright red, the bullet must’ve nicked an artery, or his heart. He had seconds left to live.

He stumbled and collapsed on the cold pavement, his back crashing into the graffitied wall behind him. Senses faded, first the pain, then the smells, and then the sirens and yells around him, all falling into muted stillness. His vision blurred and his breathing laboured, every ounce of his strength draining away with each final breath. The world around him faded into darkness, and Alex's consciousness slipped away.

[Planet X-1234598 Integration Complete]

[Welcome to the Multiverse]

[Initiating System in…]

[3…2…1…]

Then, to Alex’s surprise, everything burst into vivid colour.