Chapter 1 – My Disciple Needs to Chill

My last life earned me a sweet deal on a dojo in another world.

The catch was the location. It sat alone on a massive, isolated mountain, a quiet paradise of polished wood and pristine air. For a while, it was just me. Then came my disciples, and then more people, until a legit village grew up around the dojo, clinging to the mountainside. Now the silence is filled with the distant clash of training swords and the murmur of life. It’s a good vibe, mostly.

Sometimes, though, it’s a total bore.

My disciples practically chain me to this place. They get this panicked look in their eyes, like cornered animals, whenever I even mention a trip to the local town at the mountain’s base. They insist the world below isn’t ready for me. I have no idea what that’s supposed to mean, but their desperation is so intense, so over-the-top, that I always just give in. It’s easier than dealing with the drama. So I stay, watch the clouds, and try not to die of boredom a second time.

The shoji screen to my private room slid open with a soft hiss.

Sakura stood there, her back straight and a ledger tucked under her arm. Her dark hair was pulled into a severe ponytail, and her expression was all business. As my first disciple, she took it upon herself to manage pretty much everything that involved numbers, which was cool by me. Our mountain actually does a brisk trade, exporting raw materials and basic, mass-produced weapons. We even donate swords to other dojos sometimes, a bit of charity work to keep us humble.

She gave a short, respectful bow.

“Sensei.”

I offered a lazy wave from my spot on the tatami mat.

“Yo.”

She stepped inside, her eyes immediately scanning the room before landing on the neatly stacked crates of swords ready for shipment.

“I came to do a final check on the export batch.”

She walked over to the crates, her focus unwavering. She didn’t have to say the next part. I already knew what this was really about.

“Just making sure you didn’t accidentally include any of your personal work.”

My disciples have this weird, unshakable rule. Nothing I personally forge is allowed to leave the mountain. Not even the rejects, the ones with tiny cracks in the steel or an imperfect balance. They claim a single blade of mine could flip the world on its head. It sounded like a massive exaggeration to me.

“Nope. I don’t think so, anyway.”

Her hands flew as she unlatched the first crate. She inspected each blade with an efficiency that was almost scary. She’d lift one, catch the light on its edge, give it a curt nod, and place it gently back in the straw. It was a rhythmic, practiced motion. Crate one, clear. Crate two, clear. She got to the third crate, the one filled with flawed blades we sell for cheap.

Her movements slowed. She counted, her finger tapping each hilt. Then she counted again. A deep frown line appeared between her eyebrows.

“First-rate swords, okay. Second-rate, okay. Flawed batch… wait.”

Her head snapped up, her eyes wide with dawning horror.

“There’s one missing.”

I sat up, scratching the back of my neck. A vague memory surfaced of me tinkering with a blade yesterday, getting annoyed with it, and tossing it onto a pile. The wrong pile, apparently.

“Huh. I probably just chucked it in there by mistake.”

Sakura stared at me, her mouth slightly agape. The ledger slipped from under her arm and hit the tatami floor with a soft thud. The silence in the room became heavy, charged with her disbelief.

“Sensei. This is… this is serious.”

She took a step back, her hand coming up to cover her mouth.

“This could shatter the balance of the underworld.”

I sighed. The underworld. That’s what they call everything and everyone not on this mountain. It’s a bit much, if you ask me. I tried to get them to call it something less dramatic, like, you know, “the rest of the world,” but it didn’t stick. Now, our home is officially the “Upper World,” and by extension, that makes me sound like some kind of final boss.

It makes me feel like a total chuunibyou.

I’m in my thirties. It’s mortifying. Being treated like some supreme overlord from a bad light novel was not in the job description.

Sakura didn’t seem to notice my internal suffering. She scrambled for a small bell on a nearby table, one used to signal emergencies. Her hand trembled as she grabbed it.

“Code Red! A master-forged blade is in the underworld! I repeat, Code Red!”

The shrill ringing of the bell echoed through the dojo. I could already hear the frantic sound of footsteps from outside. A whole squad was probably about to bust in here expecting a demon invasion.

All this for one sword.

She really didn’t need to make such a fuss.

Her eyes, filled with a terrifying mix of panic and resolve, locked onto mine, and I knew my peaceful afternoon was officially over.