Shija's world was an ancient dojo, a refuge of dark, silent wood that smelled of burnt incense and distilled effort.

"...."

He was sitting in a position with his knees bent and the tops of his feet flat on the floor, in the center of the hall.

(Fsss)

The only light came from the trembling flames of a dozen low candles arranged on the tatami floor, casting dancing shadows upon the austere walls.

"Shija."

He was wearing a ceremonial keikogi suit, whose stiff fabric felt both familiar and oppressive, listening to the voice of his master in front of him, at just the right distance so that their knees would not touch.

"..."

His face, framed by the plume of smoke from the candles, was a mask of concentration and judgment.

The silence was absolute, but for Shija, the air was dense with the weight of expectations and duty. It was the same silence that had dominated every oath, every test, every dawn of training.

(This is... nostalgic.)

However, a faint prickle, almost a tingling at the base of his skull, reminded him that this scene, though vivid, was being relived.

(Is this... a memory...?)

A subtle, constant déjà vu, a blurred awareness that his real body lay unconscious somewhere.

(If that is the case, then... What happened?)

Thus, Shija sank into his thoughts, viewing the nostalgic scene of his memories from a new perspective.

"Tell me now, what is the ultimate goal of our style, the Kyōgetsu Sword Art?"

The Master spoke; her voice was a deep whisper that, nevertheless, filled the entire void of the dojo as she asked.

(Those words... That appearance... Truly, that's how Master was...)

Shija felt the pressure of the memory. Back then, his body was younger, his mind more impetuous.

"The goal..."

The answer that emerged from his throat, and which now echoed in the void of his coma, was the one he had always longed to pronounce.

"It is to master the way of the sword. To achieve perfection in technique, where the blade and the spirit are one."

Then Shija, straightening his back, delivered his answer.

"...."

"...."

To which a silence deeper than the previous one settled.

"A half-answer."

Back then, his Master neither smiled nor nodded. She simply let the inadequacy of the response fill the space.

"Mastering the art is only a means, a training."

Thus, she corrected, her voice devoid of disappointment, slowly pronouncing a truth.

"The Kyōgetsu was not founded for the self, for the pursuit of personal perfection."

She leaned slightly forward, and to Shija, in the hazy state of his dream, it seemed as if the candlelight intensified, casting a gigantic shadow over him.

"The Kyōgetsu style carries a mission, a duty that has been passed down from generation to generation since the era of nightmares."

As Shija recalled the steel-etched words spoken by his Master at that moment, his mind sharpened increasingly.

"Mastery of the sword is only the weapon we wield to fulfill it. The purpose... is much heavier than perfection."

(P-s-s-s-s)

As the last syllable left her lips, the faint fire of the candles reacted.

(Wuuuuush)

An invisible gust of wind swept through the silent dojo, and the flames moved violently and flickeringly.

(Zz-z-z-z!)

The light almost extinguished but recovered with a feverish struggle, filling the room with dancing, spectral shadows. It was as if darkness itself was trying to smother the truth the Master was about to pronounce.

"...."

Shija felt the tension of the moment, amplified by the déjà vu of the dream. The weight of that ancestral duty was not theoretical; it was a palpable force manifesting in the unstable air and the elongated shadows. His body, still in a coma, tensed, anticipating the burden that had been bequeathed to him.

"What you have been taught..."

The Master allowed the shadows to dance for one more instant, letting the madness of the environment filter into the deep silence of the memory.

"Is the swordsmanship of this world."

Then finally, she spoke, and her voice was no longer a whisper but a firm echo of a millenary truth.

"But Kyōgetsu, the 'Reflected Moon', does not originate here."

And then Shija felt a crack in his understanding. The place he had considered the center of his universe was nothing more than a station.

"Our style saw its birth in another world, one that functions as a nexus for all others. A convergence point where all the threads of existence knot and cross..."

She then paused, as if weighing the magnitude of the next sentence, while the candles flickered with renewed violence.

"That world hides a secret so dangerous that it risks the very fabric of existence. It was in that place, on the front line of the dimensional catastrophe, where necessity forged the mission. And it was there that the Kyōgetsu style was born."

After saying those words, the Master slowly shook her head, her eyes reflecting deep sadness.

"With the purpose of remembering... and surviving."

Her voice slightly cracked as she spoke the truth that had been buried.

"There was a war, in that nexus world. An alliance of all kinds of beings against that nightmare. And... we lost."

(F-f-f-f)

The candles flickered again, as if the memory itself was trying to be extinguished.

"The aftermath of that conflict was erased from the history of the worlds. Our side was cruelly hunted, one by one, by the shadow of our enemy's victory. We had no choice: in flight, we escaped to other worlds to ensure our survival, leaving the nexus behind."

The Master took a deep breath.

"Still, it was not a total defeat. Although we lost the war, we managed to avoid the worst outcome. We managed to save existence itself, though the cost was sacrificing victory and condemning ourselves to exile. No, to flight for survival."

Her finger rose, pointing beyond Shija, toward the total darkness outside the circle of candles.

"The Kyōgetsu style was created to protect the records of those events and await the moment to finish what was started so long ago."

Her gaze became profound, almost transcendental.

"Therefore, every generation of the Kyōgetsu style guards the Scroll of Memories, where all the information is kept stored within, inherited from master to disciple."

The Master explained the core of the style, where the master had to nurture the next generation, even with their life.

"To ensure this, the scroll is sealed inside the disciple. The disciple will only be able to access the information and the power within it after surpassing their master in power and skill."

That was the true reason for the difficulty of the Kyōgetsu style: it was not a path to achieve perfection, but an unrelenting cycle to ensure the next generation was always superior to the last, forging warriors capable of confronting the threat that could not be defeated long ago in an oath, not for life, but for war.

"Defeat is part of the inheritance, Shija. The Kyōgetsu is the weapon we carry into that endless battle."

The Master straightened up, the silhouette of her body becoming solid again under the flickering light.

"You understand, don't you... Shija?"

The Shija of that time, imbued with the fervor of his youth and the weight of the revealed truth, responded not with words, but with a guttural cry and a nod that resonated with absolute conviction.

"Yes!"

"Then listen carefully, disciple."

The Master accepted the oath with a slow nod.

"Remember to always maintain discipline, never drop your guard, and always sharpen your sword, no matter what."

Following that, she pronounced those last words.

"You must seek to be stronger, but at the same time... never forget your humanity."

As her image blurred like smoke.

(Shhhhh)

The candlelight extinguished, not with a blow, but through absorption, with the memory collapsing into the void of darkness.

"You don't defeat a monster... with power alone."

The last echo of his voice resonated in the dark, boundless space of the coma.

"Power is only one side of the coin. Everything has two sides... like a reflection."

Upon hearing that, the memory faded into shadows.

"Haaah...!"

In that way, in the inn, amidst the wild garden, Shija's body flinched.

"Kghh!"

A violent spasm shot through his chest, and his hand instinctively clenched over the point of his pain, right where the scroll of memories had been sealed years ago.

"Is this... Is this reality...?"

The pain of awakening was sharp and stabbing, a painful confirmation that he was still alive after opening his eyes.

"Uwaaaaaaaaaahhhhh!"

The sight that greeted him was an assault on his senses, a brutal collision between the solemnity of his memory and the ridiculous farce of reality. He was on the ground, his face partially covered by a ridiculous paper party hat that had fallen from his head, right next to his party member Boudica and a naked woman holding a club.

"I HATE THIS!!"

And above it all, the sound of an existential agony.

In the center of the room, a silver-haired figure in a black-and-white ruffled dress was sprawled among lilies and azaleas, pounding the soft moss with their lace-covered fists and crying with an intensity that would have shamed a three-year-old child.

"Is Mama sad? Does Flora help, Mama?"

Beside him, a small green fairy hovered over the drama.

"...."

Shija processed the scene, maintaining his composure.

(Never drop the guard.)

Shija leaped to his knees, ignoring the pain in his chest. His mind was suddenly lucid, his mission renewed and urgent.

(I will surpass the Master, I will save her, and the legacy...)

He clenched his fist so hard his knuckles cracked, his gaze fixed on the chaos.

(I will protect it!)

The determination forged in the dojo burning in his eyes. He had to be stronger. He had to be ready for the final moment his lineage had been waiting for. He had to fulfill his oath to his Master.

(Are you okay...?)

(Did he wake up?)

(I'll tell Mama.)

Around him, a dozen small straw dolls in ridiculous white cloth nurse outfits and poorly placed hats watched him, their expressionless button eyes radiating palpable confusion.

"Stronger."

But then...

(PLAF!)

The intense post-coma adrenaline rush vanished. The headache and the residual exhaustion of his body made him fall onto his back, out of strength.

"Fuff..."

Thus Shija released the air in a deep, surrendered sigh. The sound seemed to empty him of all his sudden fury and heroism.

"Step by step..."

However, the determination did not disappear from his eyes, as he let himself drop onto the soft moss, sitting down heavily.

"At my own pace."

His gaze swept over the comatose bodies, then the garden, and finally settled on the hysterically crying Magical Girl.

"I will be stronger."