The White-Haired Shut-In (1)
It's a bit late to say this now, but Si-ho had lived a rather tumultuous life.
The year Si-ho turned twenty, her parents passed away. It was a traffic accident—a minivan that crossed the median slammed into the car her family was riding in. Her father died on the spot, and her mother in the hospital. The only survivors were Si-ho and the minivan's drunken driver.
Si-ho still remembered that man's face, flushed red with booze. She was placed in the care of her bachelor uncle, who was kind to her. Despite her insistence that she could manage alone, he gently overruled her and treated her like his own child.
Her uncle died the year she turned twenty-four. He was beaten to death. Working for a clothing company, he had endured constant abuse and harassment from the prime contractor. The torment escalated to physical violence, culminating in the inevitable tragedy.
After that, Si-ho stayed in her company's dormitory. Her colleagues offered genuine condolences. One even introduced her to a promising side gig, saying her situation was so pitiful that he had to share the info specially. It turned out to be a scam. Si-ho lost most of her savings and quit her job.
From then on, she shut herself in her room. She locked the door, cutting off all contact with the world. Her only connection to the outside was the freelance translations of Japanese manga and novels she took on.
And then—call it fate or irony—the world she reincarnated into bore an uncanny resemblance to the samurai action manga she'd been translating right before her death: Wandering Sword God: Past Arc.
The story was set in the waning days of feudal Japan. Local powers, having built up their strength, unleashed assassinations and terror to topple the decaying central government. They slaughtered pro-government figures without hesitation, even in broad daylight on busy streets, plunging the world into fear. Just like this.
Drip, drip.
Crimson blood droplets splattered across Si-ho's face.
"Kyaaaaaaaah!!!"
A scream tore through her ears like ripping fabric. The metallic stench of blood assaulted her nostrils. Staring blankly downward, Si-ho saw a man with his throat half-severed, gurgling blood.
"Ah! Another... another assassination!"
"Someone alert the magistrate's office quick! A shogunate official's been attacked!"
"No... hang on, sir. Why would this... it can't end like this...."
Horror, shock, terror—emotions boiled through the crowd. Some shook their heads in pity. Others squeezed their eyes shut in prayer. Some sobbed or whimpered. And one turned pale and vomited.
"Urp... bleeech."
Si-ho curled into a shrimp-like ball and retched. The world spun. Her stomach churned. Her breaths came ragged, her vision swimming. Memories from her past life flooded in like a tidal wave. She superimposed her own death onto the man's severed neck.
"Aaaah...."
Si-ho bolted away like a madwoman. No particular destination—just fleeing the gruesome scene. She ended up at an abandoned house in a deserted area. Huddled in a corner, she trembled uncontrollably.
"I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die. I don't wanna die. No. No. No...."
The metallic blood smell still lingered in her nose. Phantom pains stabbed her chest. With unfocused eyes, she muttered haltingly.
"Dangerous. The outside world's dangerous. Especially this world... way more dangerous...."
This was an era where anti-government factions plotted national overthrow. Indiscriminate terror raged, and basic public safety was in shambles. Already an extreme hellscape. And yet...
"......"
Si-ho lifted her shaking hands before her eyes. Too small and soft for an adult man's. The sigh that escaped her lips was a thin, fragile girl's voice. For some reason, she'd reincarnated into a tiny girl's body.
'In this deadly world... as a girl? A little kid, no less...?'
Assault. Injury. Robbery. Kidnapping. Blackmail. And... All sorts of horrific crimes flashed through her mind. Pale as a ghost, Si-ho clutched her head.
"Back then... if only I'd been a little faster...."
She recalled her past life's death again. The killer had drawn his knife faster. Si-ho had been slower. That's why she died.
"Back then. If I'd drawn my weapon first, faster...."
As if possessed, Si-ho rummaged through the junk scattered around the abandoned house. Moments later, she unearthed a rusty sword from a pile of trash. Toothless and corroded red with rust, but she tucked it into her belt without a care.
Dragging her quivering legs upright, she placed a dazed hand on the hilt.
"Then... maybe I wouldn't have died."
Kaaaaang!!
With a shrill screech, the blade whipped from her waist. Iaijutsu. The act of drawing a sword from its scabbard. Seemingly simple, but it demanded finesse and care. Otherwise...
The blade scraped the inside of the scabbard, splitting it and slicing off the left hand gripping it.
"......"
Drip, drip. Blood pattered to the floor. But Si-ho ignored it and sheathed the sword.
"Faster...."
Kaaaaang!!
Another ear-piercing scrape echoed. Fresh blood beaded from the split skin on her left hand.
"Faster."
The bloodied blade slid back into her waist. Then another draw.
Kaaaaang!!
Endless sheathing and drawing. With each repetition, wounds multiplied on Si-ho's hands. But she didn't care. Couldn't care. Her reason-lost eyes chased one goal.
"Faster."
Kaaaaang!!
How many times did the sharp cry ring through the room? Hundreds, thousands, tens of thousands—or countless. Time stretched into eternity, or flashed in an instant.
And finally, at the razor-edge of those stacked moments...
"———."
A storm erupted from the girl. The blade, shattering hypersonic barriers, tore the air. A massive shockwave shook the earth, followed by a gale-force wind howling everything away.
Si-ho stood dazed at the vortex's center, gripping the hilt. A piercing reeee rang in her ears. As dust and debris settled, revealing the devastated surroundings, the blade—red-hot from adiabatic compression—hissed steam, then shattered with a clang-crack.
"......"
Whether from extreme stress or the price of transcendent power, Si-ho's hair had turned pure white, fluttering in the afterwind. She stared blankly at the flattened ground, then collapsed from the delayed recoil and exhaustion, losing consciousness.
Genzaburo Nishimura. He was a low-ranking warrior. More precisely, a ronin.
A ronin was a masterless samurai without official position—essentially a NEET. So he needed a fitting hobby to kill his endless free time.
Soon enough, he discovered tsujigiri. In Japanese, tsujigiri—Japan's traditional pastime of slashing random passersby on the street.
Ronin took it up for varied reasons: testing a new sword's edge, trying real combat with their skills, or just feeling down that day.
Genzaburo started for the last reason.
'Felt depressed, so I killed someone.'
The other ronin empathized deeply. One ignorant farmer who retorted, "Why kill when you're depressed?" became that night's plaything.
Ways to enjoy the hobby varied too—when, where, whom, how. Genzaburo preferred nights, dark alleys, children, and dragging it out long.
Some ronin favored big, sturdy adults for the "satisfying chop," but Genzaburo loved tormenting the small and weak, so he couldn't relate.
Lately, though, routine had set in. Sticking to the same method grew stale.
'Time for a fresh approach.'
A trendy new tsujigiri style was booming. With the turbulent times, ronin practiced killing to land assassin gigs. They showed off in broad daylight on busy streets. The boldness impressed many, making it the hottest trend.
'Busy streets, huh. Kyoto's perfect.'
Kyoto, the capital with the imperial palace, was assassin central. Genzaburo slung his sword over his shoulder and headed north.
The morning he reached Kyoto's outskirts after the long trek, he spotted someone staggering from a crumbling abandoned house.
'Old beggar?'
Ragged clothes, sedge hat pulled low. White hair peeked from underneath. Hunched back, trembling body—clearly a wandering geezer.
Genzaburo clicked his tongue to pass by, then thought: Why not slice him for a warm-up? A little appetizer before hitting Kyoto proper.
Some ronin griped that old corpses just soured the mood and stank up the blade. But not Genzaburo. There was a word for it: the vulnerable elderly. Like kids, powerless weaklings—prime targets.
Licking his lips, he reached for his hilt.
'Split the head? Nah, hat'd get in the way. Diagonal slice then—from collarbone across to opposite hip....'
Click. He flicked his nose with his thumb. Imagining the ecstasy, he drew his sword with a happy smile.
——BOOM!!!
A deafening explosion—and Genzaburo's head pulverized into thousands of chunks, scattering everywhere.
Flew off? Maybe not precise. Better: his head exploded into minced meat spraying in all directions.
"Uh, ah? Again... power control...."
Drip, drip. Brain matter and blood rained down like a shower.
The hunched white-haired "old man"—Si-ho, mistaken as such—clutched her sedge hat, shoulders hunched.
"Th-this... now the sword's... unusable again...."
Frowning down at her blade, shattered beyond hypersonic shockwaves.
"......"
Si-ho glanced sideways at Genzaburo. He stood rigidly in perfect iaijutsu stance, headless like a mannequin, oblivious to his exploded skull.
"Eek. Ex-excuse meee...."
Eyes squeezed shut, she reached for his sword.
Click. She sheathed the newly acquired blade at her waist. Though Genzaburo's head was gone from this world, the intent to strike the old man lingered eternally in his sword, by Si-ho's side.