It had been a few days since Jack arrived in the Other realm.
Eldoria.
He hadn't left the manor once.
Not because he was hiding.
He simply couldn't move.
His body was hanging by threads. Sleep came in thirty-minute bursts. Frantic, haunted fragments barely enough to keep him alive. Every time he tried to rest, the air outside would shift. Groaning. Growling.
The first night, they came.
Jiangshi. Corpses that walked without breath. Moved without thought.
He fought them off.
The second night was worse.
He defended again. His arms moved on instinct. His muscles burned with every swing. But somehow, he survived.
With every small victory he gained Star Stream.
It wasn't a skill. Not a spell or ability. Just a current that pulsed through his veins, cold and clear.
When it awakened, it was like being submerged in a glacial river. His worn limbs surged back to life. Torn muscle knit just enough. Cracked bone didn't heal, but it stopped screaming. For a moment, he felt… whole.
But it came without warning. And vanished just as fast.
He didn't know how to use it. Couldn't control it.
But it had saved him. Countless times.
Countless jiangshi fell.
And now, days later, Jack was still alive.
But barely.
He sat against a crooked bookshelf in a dark corner of the manor. The room stank of dust and dried blood. The shelves leaned like drunkards, one of them cracked from a blade strike days ago. Papers littered the floor like fallen feathers.
His body was a map of pain.
Cuts burned along his arms. Bruises darkened his ribs. The arrow wound in his leg throbbed in the cold air, sharp and deep. His hoodie was stained with sweat, dirt, and blood. Mostly his own. His pants were torn at the knees, exposing scraped skin and dried gashes.
Two swords rested beside him.
One pale as bone.
The other black as void.
He leaned back with a tired groan and let his head rest against the splintered wood. Eyes half-lidded. Muscles twitching with exhaustion. One node away before falling asleep.
And then...
Smack!
"Gah—!"
Something smacked into the top of his skull. He winced and looked down.
A book had fallen in front of him.
"…Owowow…"
He rubbed the new bruise forming on his head, grumbling. Great, like I needed another injury.
The book's cover was leatherbound and cracked with age.
In faded, almost burned-in script, it read:
"Sword of a Thousand Duels"
"…What a poetic name…"
He flipped it open with sluggish fingers. Most of the pages were filled with symbols he couldn't read, but then, something blinked in his vision.
A soft chime. A notification.
[Would you like to absorb this sword art?]
Jack squinted.
"…Absorb?"
What was that thing? Another trick by the manor? He was hallucinating, probably.
Still, something deep inside him stirred. A whisper of curiosity through the fog of fatigue.
"…Yes?"
[Commencing Absorption...]
The book pulsed in his hand.
Then, it dissolved—breaking into lines of pale, glowing script that curled upward, spiraling toward his head.
"…Wait, what the he—"
Agony.
A flash of white pain slammed into his skull.
His scream echoed off the walls. His hands flew to his temples. His back arched. The world tilted sideways.
It felt like his mind was being shredded.
Information didn't flow into him, it was rammed into place. Movements, stances, footwork, philosophy. All at once. Every cell in his body lit up with fire. Every old injury flared with renewed pain. The numbness he'd learned to rely on… was gone.
Now, there was only suffering.
Time stretched.
He was sure hours passed. Maybe days.
Then...
Darkness.
Silence.
And breath.
Jack jolted up, gasping like a man pulled from drowning. His heart thundered in his chest. Sweat drenched his skin.
"…Haa… haa… That hurt like hell… I'm never doing that again."
[Absorption Complete]
His vision sharpened. Edges clearer. Light brighter. His ears picked up soft creaks in the distant hall. Subtle but real.
For someone like him, who was new to combat and still fumbling, this was everything.
And then came the knowledge.
The sword art had embedded itself in his mind like a splinter.
Fragments, broken and incomplete.
But familiar.
The stance, it was the same one the Samurai Jiangshi had used during their duel.
He picked up the black sword and pushed himself up. His legs trembled. Every step was a challenge. But he moved.
Through narrow, collapsed hallways. Over splintered beams and half-rotten floorboards. Under fallen furniture.
Until he reached the training hall.
The place where he'd nearly died.
Where he'd survived.
Red leaves scattered across the stone floor. The sun peeked through the broken ceiling, casting long shadows through the ruins.
A warm breeze drifted through.
Calm.
Jack stepped into the first stance.
And immediately wobbled.
His knees were too wide. Shoulders crooked. Grip weak. Everything was wrong.
He exhaled and tried again.
Then again.
Over. And over. And over.
Each time, something was off.
Too low. Too stiff. Too slow.
It didn't matter. He repeated it until the stance became familiar. Until his body started to remember.
Until it felt natural. Hours passed in trial and error.
He slid his fingers to the sword's hilt. Left hand on the sheath.
A single draw.
Click!-
The blade flashed. A crude strike, but fast. Precise enough.
"…That's useful."
He wasn't ready for a real fight. Not with this art. He needed to grind it into his bones.
But now he had a weapon that wasn't just steel.
He had a sword art.
The next few hours were repetition.
Sheath.
Draw.
Again.
Get into posture.
Then footwork.
It was a disaster.
One step too far, he tripped. Too short and he staggered. Off-balance then he slipped.
But he kept going.
The day passed like that. Awkward. Filled with failure and determination.
Leaves circled around him, caught in the breeze, as he danced around with his sword.
Step. Turn. Draw. Lunge.
Again.
His focus tunneled in.
He didn't notice the aching in his back. The sting of his leg. The weight of his exhaustion.
Only the motion.
Only the rhythm.
The mark on his hand began to glow faintly—pulsing with a steady, silent light.
A spin.
A stab to the left.
A quick draw.
A feint to the back, l and then...
He tripped.
He hit the ground hard. Got up and dusted himself off and got back into stance.
"Again!"
He shouted to no one.
Because he knew.
Tonight, another wave of jiangshi would come.
Time was never on his side. Not here. Not anywhere.
He had to be ready.
By sundown, he was drenched in sweat. Muscles shaking. His skin gleamed under the golden light. Grey strands of hair clung to his cheeks.
He sat down, breathing heavy. The sky above was painted with streaks of violet and gold.
For the first time in days, he let himself rest.
An hour passed.
Night fell.
The moon climbed into the sky, glowing an eerie bluish hue. Stars shimmered above like distant fires. A galactic stream of purple and azure stretched across the heavens.
It was… beautiful.
And then he heard it.
A growl.
Low. Feral. Near the gate.
Jack stood slowly.
One jiangshi limped into view.
Then two more.
His stomach growled.
He gripped his sheath, golden eyes narrowing.
"…Man, I'm so hungry I could eat a horse."
He stepped forward.
Slow. Deliberate.
His blade gleamed in the moonlight.