Crack... pop!
In the dimly lit cavern, a campfire blazed brightly, its flickering flames casting dancing shadows on the stone walls. The fire crackled intermittently, filling the space with soft snapping sounds and a warm, golden glow.
Curled beside the fire, a boy of about twelve or thirteen lay wrapped in a massive black animal pelt. The coarse hide still bore streaks of unprocessed fat, glistening faintly under the firelight.
It was a crude fur blanket, rough, pungent, and reeking faintly of blood and rot.
Despite the primitive covering, the boy's appearance was unexpectedly refined: skin smooth as porcelain, sharp and delicate features, and a cascade of long, crimson-red hair that tumbled loosely over his shoulders. But marring his otherwise striking appearance was a large flame-shaped birthmark on the left side of his forehead, stretching across his temple and down his cheek like a scar of fire etched into flesh. It lent him a mysterious, almost otherworldly aura.
At this moment, the boy lay motionless, eyes tightly shut, his body trembling faintly as if enduring tremendous pain.
After what felt like an eternity, he finally opened his eyes. Confusion flashed through them as he scanned his surroundings, replaced almost instantly by shock, bewilderment, and… disbelief.
"This... can't be real!"
His hoarse whisper broke the cavern's stillness, laden with disbelief. He blinked rapidly, rubbing at his eyes with trembling hands.
Again he closed them, then forced them open. Still uncertain, he slapped his own cheek. The sting of pain confirmed what his mind could barely accept.
The confusion in his gaze gradually faded, giving way to deep curiosity. A soft murmur echoed through the stone walls:
"It seems... I've transmigrated. Again."
"My name… is Tai Yi."
"That name came from a blind fortune-teller in my village. He said my destiny was grand and required a name worthy of it. I was young, dramatic, and utterly believed him."
"As a kid, I truly thought I'd been chosen by fate. That one day, the world of Digimon would call out for my help."
"But as I grew older, I realized I wasn't chosen by fate. I was toyed with by it."
"I died at the age of twenty-four. Just after passing the civil service exam, no less."
"I suspect… my name might've jinxed me."
"I thought my life was a tragedy."
"Until I lived a second one."
"My second name… was Yoriichi Tsugikuni."
"I was born into a world where humans and demons coexisted. From the moment I opened my eyes, I knew my purpose."
"In just over two decades, I cut down everything in my path—coast to coast, ridge to ridge."
"After fulfilling my destiny, I retired to the mountains and lived the peaceful life I'd always dreamed of."
"Years passed. I died, content."
"But when I opened my eyes again… I realized I'd come back to life. Again."
"Maybe… I really was chosen by fate. Even if… there's still no Digimon in sight."
In the dim cavern, now familiar yet strange, Yoriichi Tsugikuni rose slowly, the thick beast hide still draped over him. He took a long look around.
Alone again, and at peace with it, Yoriichi accepted his new reality faster than most might have.
First things first—figure out where, or when, he was.
The cave was roughly seven square meters. Judging from the biting chill in the air, it must have been winter. Even with a roaring fire before him and a thick fur wrapped around his body, he shivered from the cold that pierced through it all.
"Is this... the primitive era?"
He scanned the space. No signs of modern tools. Just beside the fire lay a crude wooden fork and knife, clearly handmade. Next to them sat a roughly carved wooden bowl, filled halfway with a yellowish, lumpy paste.
"Food, I guess… curry?"
Yoriichi made a mental note and kept observing.
In one corner, a heap of firewood—two meters long, half a meter high. The air was thick with smoke, but beneath it lingered a subtle, briny scent.
"That's… the smell of the sea?"
He sniffed instinctively, then paused as his gaze fell on something near his feet.
A long, black blade.
"A sword?!"
Crouching swiftly, he picked it up.
It was a double-handed straight blade, roughly two meters long. Its black scabbard was engraved with intricate wave patterns. The hilt alone stretched forty centimeters, too long for one hand to grasp fully.
He unsheathed it slowly.
No glint of steel met his eyes, only darkness.
"Black blade? Even the edge is black? Matte finish?"
Indeed, the entire sword—scabbard, hilt, blade, and edge, was pitch black. It exuded a solemn, almost sacred presence.
The blade was about five centimeters wide, with a spine thicker than one centimeter. Judging from its size and structure, it should have been heavy.
Yet… it felt light in his hand. Unnaturally light.
Near the hilt, a single character was etched: "灭" (destruction). The craftsmanship reminded him of the forges from his past world—specifically, the famed Swordsmith Village.
Gripping the blade with both hands, Yoriichi made a fluid, instinctive motion.
The tip of the sword sliced silently through the top of the cave, leaving a deep gouge in the stone above.
Clatter—
Loose pebbles tumbled down, shattering on impact.
Reflexively shielding his eyes, Yoriichi waited until the dust settled. When he looked up again, a long scar ran across the ceiling.
"Nice blade."
"The craftsmanship… To make a sword like this, the civilization here can't be that primitive. Or… maybe I brought it with me?"
"And this strength of mine..."
He ran his fingers gently along the blade, then stood, long sword in hand, and approached the cave entrance.
Only pitch-black darkness greeted him, and a gust of icy wind drove him back inside.
"Too cold. Might as well rest and scout in the morning."
He huddled back beside the fire, tossed in a few more logs, and curled up for warmth. Fatigue weighed him down like a heavy blanket. Before long, his eyes drifted shut, and sleep took him.
That night, Yoriichi dreamed.
Of the sea, sunlight, sandy shores, and a small town by the coast. The people there were simple, kind, and self-sufficient. Not wealthy, but peaceful. Content.
And he… was one of them.
In that dream, the world was paradise.
As the sky began to lighten, morning's first rays spilled across the earth.
Yoriichi awoke.
"It really happened… I've transmigrated. Again."
He sat up slowly on his stone bed, watching the final tendrils of smoke curl upward from the campfire's dying embers.
His face was blank—eyes distant. He sat there, unmoving, lost in thought.
(End of the Chapter)