The room was quiet.
A single candle flickered in the corner, casting long shadows across dusty shelves, old books, and a rickety table where he now sat.
He watched through a translucent system screen — the view flickering slightly as the clone moved through the streets, drawing attention like a ripple in calm water.
The Wandering Swordsman walked slowly across the stone roads of the town below, his white hair trailing in the wind, his blindfold swaying, his hands behind his back like a man with nothing to prove.
And here, inside this lonely home in the town's southern end…
He watched.
He leaned back in his chair, silent. Thinking.
"It's strange… watching someone that looks like me… act more like a person than I ever have."
He rubbed his face — fingers brushing across his cheekbone, tracing the curve of a body that still felt borrowed.
This wasn't his original form.
This was the body of an orphan.
Fragile. Weak. Tainted by a rare mana condition that refused to let him grow stronger in the normal way.
Even after reincarnating, he had nothing heroic.
No divine blood. No ancient family crest.
Just… this room. A dusty house that was technically his, and a body that hurt when he stood too long.
But…
"I have him."
He turned back to the screen. The clone was now watching a group of trainees spar. Silent. Calm. Already adapting.
[Wandering Swordsman: Observation Mode – Active]
[AI Evolution: 13%]
[Combat Style Prototype Detected: Empty Blade Foundation]
[Emotional Drift Detected: Philosophical Framework Accepting Integration]
He blinked at that last line.
Emotional drift?
He's… feeling things now?
It wasn't just a robot anymore.
The AI wasn't just copying behavior — it was crafting a soul.
And weirdly… that soul was becoming something beautiful.
He's everything I'm not.
He moves with grace. He speaks only when necessary. People look at him and see mystery. Meaning. Weight.
Meanwhile, I'm just some shut-in in a borrowed house, watching from behind a screen.
He let out a breath.
Not angry. Not jealous.
Just… thoughtful.
"He looks like a man who's lived a hundred lives."
"And me… I've barely lived one."
He turned from the screen and looked out the window.
Outside, children played in the street. A woman haggled at a fruit stall. A couple argued softly over something he couldn't hear.
This world was alive.
And he was in it now.
But still… stuck.
He pulled up the system interface — his own system, not the world's.
[Genesis Forge – Active]
Clone Slot: 1/1 Used
Genesis Credits: 875
Divine Roll: 0
Mythic Rolls: 0
Rare Rolls: 3
Shop: Available
Clone Upgrade: Locked (Insufficient Mana Source)
Skill Templates: 2
NEW: Second Clone Slot available at Level 5 or via Class Unlock.
His finger hovered over the shop tab… then stopped.
"What do I even make next?" he murmured.
He had ideas.
A high-charisma caster?
A manipulator who could charm nobles, blend in with guilds?
Or maybe… a healer. Quiet, calm, kind. Someone who could walk in places of worship or noble courts.
But the thought didn't excite him.
Not yet.
Instead, his eyes drifted back to the clone's screen.
The swordsman was sitting again, observing a spear user now. Even as the sun shifted above, he barely moved. Just watched. Studied. Learned.
The MC smiled faintly.
He's not even real, and yet he lives more truthfully than most people I've met.
And yet… I made him.
That means I could become something too… couldn't I?
He looked down at his hands again — weak, shaking slightly from earlier effort.
I may be trapped in this broken body… but the world is open now.
If I can't walk it with my own feet...
His fingers hovered back over the interface.
Then I'll walk it through the eyes of those I create.
⚙️ SYSTEM PROMPT:
[Suggestion: Begin Prototype Design for Clone #2]
Type: Intelligence-based
Role: Social + Arcane
Personality Template: Trickster, Philosopher, Diplomat
Codename: [Pending]
"Would you like to begin?"
He didn't click yes.
Not yet.
Switch Pov.
The ground felt warm.
He stood near the edge of the training ground — not quite inside, not quite outside. His bare feet pressed into the packed dirt, still soft from last night's rain, the texture clinging lightly to his skin.
He shifted his toes slightly. The sensation registered. No reason, just… a habit.
His eyes moved, slowly, not aggressively scanning, just watching.
People trained.
Some swung swords, stiff and slow. Others ran basic footwork drills in circles, correcting posture and pace.
A girl in simple robes was trying to steady her breathing while channeling qi through her palms — the glowing light flickered every few seconds before dying again.
The clone said nothing.
He adjusted the loose cloth on his shoulder — the robe too big for his frame, unevenly tied at the waist. His long white hair hung freely, catching the breeze. His blindfold rested just above his cheekbones, but he could still see everything through it.
Not just the movements — but the way people stood. How they placed their feet. How their muscles moved when tired.
He wasn't just watching them fight.
He was watching them fail.
Their bodies remember what their minds don't. They repeat motions like they're afraid to be wrong.
He shifted slightly and lowered himself onto a short wooden post beside the field — like a log someone had forgotten to clear. It creaked under his weight, but didn't break.
He rested one elbow on his knee and leaned into it.
No dramatic entrance. No pressure. Just… watching.
A system screen hovered faintly in the back of his mind.
[Passive Observation Mode – Active]
[Motion fragments recording… 5%]
[Low-Tier Sword Styles: 3 Patterns Acquired]
He wasn't aware of every technical detail. That was the AI's job.
But the patterns were slipping into his muscles.
His hand moved subtly on its own, mimicking a wrist motion he'd just seen — palm down, then turn.
A small thing. Like scratching an itch.
A pair of young boys clashed swords a few meters ahead of him.
The one on the left stumbled — overcommitted. The other responded too late, trying to adjust his grip mid-swing.
They clashed off-balance and reset.
No one said anything. No instructor corrected them. They just started again.
"Why do they swing like that?" he muttered, half under his breath.
He stood.
He walked forward. Quiet steps. The boys didn't notice until he was standing just a few feet away.
The one on the right blinked. "Uh… are you waiting for your turn?"
"No."
"Then… what?"
The clone didn't answer immediately. He was watching the younger boy's left shoulder.
It's too tense.
His swings drag behind his footwork.
Finally, he spoke.
"Your arm's moving faster than your legs. That's why you're leaning forward every time you try to finish a strike."
The boy blinked again. "Huh?"
The clone stepped to the side and motioned with his hand. "Swing again. Not at me. Just… swing."
The boy hesitated. Then did.
The clone watched. And then stepped forward and placed one hand gently on the boy's shoulder.
"Relax this. Lead with your back foot. Let the weight pull you forward."
Another swing.
Better.
Not perfect. But better.
The other boy asked, "Are you a swordsman?"
"No."
A pause.
"…You're dressed like one."
The clone looked at himself for the first time since the morning. Tattered robe. Bandaged left arm. Bare feet. White hair hanging messy down his back.
He didn't respond.
"You're… not from here, are you?"
"No."
He turned away and sat down again on the post.
His elbow rested on his knee again. Same position. He didn't mean to do it. Just felt right.
Across the field, an instructor finally arrived. Late thirties. Beard trimmed. Sword at his hip. He shouted a few names and gave a few corrections.
The clone kept watching.
Every mistake.
Every pattern.
Some students moved from drills to light sparring. Others tried meditating. A few gave up halfway through and walked off for water.
The wind picked up.
Somewhere in the back of his head, a memory stirred. A river. A sword sticking out of a tree stump. A girl laughing.
He didn't know if it was real. Didn't chase it.
It passed.
Eventually, someone noticed he was still there.
The instructor, walking the perimeter, stopped near him. "You new around here?"
"I think so."
"Training?"
"No."
The instructor looked confused. "So… just watching?"
"Yes."
The instructor looked at him a second longer. Then nodded, almost respectfully, and moved on.
[AI Log Update]
["Empty Blade – Foundation Style" 0.12 Created]
[Synthesis: Body posture + Passive breathing + Observation-based anticipation]
[Combat Use: Limited, but improving]
His body had been still for over an hour. But it didn't feel stiff. It felt natural. Like it had always been this way.
He blinked once. Adjusted his fingers. Watched the stance of a nearby dual-wielding girl who was overcorrecting her offhand swings.
Then he mimicked her movement slowly with his left hand, correcting it in his version without thinking.
He wasn't trying to look cool.
He was trying to remember something.
No dramatic ending.
No big moment.
He just kept watching.
And quietly, learning.