Tech Hero in Another World

"Hey, little girl. Is this everything?" Rumi asked in a calm voice that nonetheless carried tension. Her hands were busy preparing the ritual tools—a fire pit built from sacred wood, a small bronze bell tied with red string, and other implements arranged with precision.

Kumara turned briefly, her young face still tense though she tried to hide it. "Yes… thank you, Rumi."

Rumi nodded, drawing a deep breath. Even for her, a soldier accustomed to the battlefield, the idea of restraining a rampaging nine-tailed fox felt far beyond the limits of sanity.

On the other side, Gior—a broad-shouldered man with dark skin and watchful eyes—added as he gazed into the flames already crackling to life: "I hope this works. I truly can't imagine what would happen if that creature rampages through the city."

His voice was heavy, resonating alongside the sound of drums just struck by one of the supporting priests.

Kumara only nodded softly. Gior's words struck the deepest corner of her heart. She remembered—the last night before tragedy. Her mother, a graceful kitsune, danced beneath the moonlight. A dance of beauty, flowing like water, a small comfort before the hunt for their kind began. That was her final memory of her mother, the last dance etched forever into her heart.

Now, she had to dance again. But this time, not for beauty or comfort—this time to save the world from the wrath of a fox so fearsome that even the gods themselves might hesitate to face it.

With steady steps, though her heart pounded in her chest, Kumara walked to the simple altar prepared for her. The altar was surrounded by sacred ropes inscribed with ancient symbols, markings only those experienced in the art of sealing could draw. The moment she stepped into the circle, the very air seemed to shift—the temperature dropped, the night wind swirled around the altar, and the firelight flickered wildly as though responding to her presence.

Kumara's body began to glow. From her pores streamed pure white energy, thin and gentle, yet brimming with power. That aura wrapped around her, making the twelve-year-old girl appear like a sacred spirit descended from the heavens.

Rumi's eyes widened. "She really is… a Miko."

Gior lowered his head, readying his drum. "Then let's make sure nothing disturbs her." His voice was firm, resolute.

The first beat of the drum rang out, heavy and echoing. The second followed, accompanied by the ringing of Rumi's bronze bell. The rhythm was no ordinary music—it was an ancient pattern, passed down through generations, crafted to guide the spiritual dance toward its climax.

Kumara closed her eyes, recalling her mother's movements. Her feet began to step lightly, graceful yet full of meaning. Each swing of her arms, each turn of her body, flowed with spiritual energy that spread outward from the altar. White light traced along the sacred ropes, seeping into the ground and forming a circle that grew clearer with every step.

The fire in the pit suddenly changed color, shifting from ordinary red to a silvery blue. The bell Rumi shook rang louder, as if unseen hands were striking it too. Gior's drumbeats pounded the air, channeling energy that made the hair on anyone's neck stand on end.

And Kumara… she kept dancing.

Her steps grew faster, more graceful, as though her small body no longer belonged to a human. Each turn of her feet left behind trails of light, blossoming into white petals that floated in the air, spinning in time with the drum. Her eyes remained closed, her expression serene, but beneath it all lay tension, fear, and courage woven together.

"So beautiful…" Rumi whispered softly, her gaze fixed on the little girl who seemed to have become a divine spirit.

But Gior, unlike Rumi, kept his mind on the harsh truth. He knew moments like this were fragile. "We can't be lulled," he said, striking his drum harder, keeping the rhythm steady so the dance's energy would not falter.

And Gior's instincts proved right.

A fireball shot out from the treeline, streaking straight toward the altar with terrifying speed. This was no ordinary fire—it carried destructive sorcery within, enough to obliterate the altar in a single blast.

Rumi, despite having only one arm, did not hesitate. In less than a heartbeat, she moved. Her body darted forward, her eyes catching the oncoming blaze, then—cling!—with a motion almost impossible, she swung her longsword and deflected the fireball to the side. A thunderous explosion followed, flames smashing into a massive tree trunk and shattering it into burning fragments.

Dust and embers scattered through the air.

Gior froze mid-beat, his body tense. "Damn it! They came faster than we thought!"

Rumi landed back on the ground, her shoulders trembling, her breath ragged from the strain on her left arm's limited strength. But her eyes stayed sharp, locked onto the shadow emerging from the flames.

A hard-faced monk stepped out from the blaze. Parts of his robe were scorched, yet his skin showed not the slightest burn, as if the heat had never touched him. His expression was flat, cold, with a mocking smile that seemed to make the air itself heavier. His gaze swept over the altar before stopping on Kumara, who was still dancing.

"You've got to be kidding me," he said in a disgusted tone. "I went through all the trouble of persuading the Miko to release the seal… and now you're trying to bind it again? How pathetic, such a pointless effort."

Rumi stood before the altar, her feet set firm, her one hand gripping her longsword tightly. Her body was clearly weary, but her eyes burned with resolve. "Then," she said, her voice sharp as steel, "you'll have to go through me first."

The monk wasted no more words. He slammed his black wooden staff against the ground—thud! The sound echoed, the earth trembling around them. From the shadows of his body, three hazy figures began to form. Slowly, the black mist solidified into beastmen with empty faces—fallen warriors of this land, forced to rise again as wraiths of darkness. Rusted weapons still clutched in their hands, and though lifeless, their bloodlust stabbed through the air.

Gior, who had been keeping the drum's rhythm, stopped instantly. He couldn't just sit back while Rumi faced such an opponent alone. "Rumi! I won't let you fight them by yourself!" he shouted, rising from his place.

But Rumi turned, her eyes narrowing, her voice slicing through the air. "Leave it to me."

"But—"

"One arm doesn't make me weak, Gior." A faint smile tugged at her lips—not arrogance, but conviction. "It made me stronger."

Her words silenced him. Gior knew who Rumi truly was. Not merely a crippled soldier, but a master swordswoman who once roamed the world, challenged countless trials, and carved her name into the history of adventurers. Losing an arm had nearly destroyed her, a disgrace after her defeat against Trek, the Red Bison. But Rumi never surrendered.

For the past five years, she had withdrawn from the clamor of the world, tempering her body and spirit anew. She forged a new sword style—not copied, but born of her own suffering and perseverance—One Sword Style: Atream.

A sword art that turned limitation into strength. Its movements were sharper, more efficient, and faster than her old style. She cast away the need for a second hand, replacing it with absolute precision in every strike.

And now, for the first time in years, she stood at the frontlines with that style, facing enemies who truly sought her life.

"I am the vanguard," Rumi declared, her steady voice carrying across the crackle of fire and the rhythm of Kumara's dance. She lowered her stance, her lone sword angled low, her eyes narrowing with absolute focus on the three wraiths advancing toward her. "And it is my duty to make sure no one crosses this line."

The monk chuckled, his voice like a cold whisper cutting into bone. "Good," he said, his smile widening. "Let's see if your new sword can stop death itself."

With a flick of his staff, the three spectral warriors roared in silence, their hollow eyes reflecting the crimson glow of the torii far in the distance. Their rusted weapons lifted high, and in an instant, they charged.

Rumi moved.

Her body shot forward like lightning, her sword cutting through the air. Clash! Steel met steel as her blade caught the savage swing of the first wraith. Sparks of black energy scattered. Instead of retreating, Rumi twisted her hips, riding the force of the clash. In a single sharp motion, she slashed diagonally, cutting the second wraith from shoulder to waist. Its form dissolved instantly into black mist.

"Flow…" she whispered, soft, almost like a prayer.

It was the first fundamental technique of her new sword style, One Sword Style: Atream. A blade art born of hardship, refined through pain, now honed into her purest weapon.

There were four core techniques in this style. Flow—a movement of current, using momentum and turning the enemy's force against them. Pierce—a straight, flawless thrust that struck vital points with absolute precision. Sweep—a wide, circular cut to deal with many foes at once. And finally, Guard Break—a heavy upward strike that shattered defenses.

They seemed simple. But that simplicity was the essence. By mastering these foundations to perfection, Rumi could weave endless combinations, forming a sword dance both beautiful and lethal.