The wind had returned.
It whispered through the dry grass, carrying the scent of rain and the distant growls of unseen creatures. Raiyo stood alone in the barren wasteland, his small hands tightening around the katana that devours light.
He could not see the blade, nor the landscape around him. But he could feel them.
A world unseen unfolded within his mind—shadows shifting, air stirring, the weight of the distant sky pressing upon the earth. It was overwhelming, yet intoxicating, as if he had stepped beyond the fragile boundaries of mortality and into something greater.
But one truth remained.
He was still alone.
And he had no idea where to go.
His fingers traced the hilt of the katana. It was unlike anything he had ever touched—cold, yet alive, as if the metal pulsed with a heartbeat of its own. The presence that had given it to him had vanished into the night, leaving only riddles and whispers in its wake.
"Seek the Unseen Blade. Learn the ways of the void."
What did that mean?
The blade hummed in response to his thoughts. A faint vibration ran through his arm, spreading through his body like an unanswered question. Then, suddenly—
A hunger.
It wasn't his own, but the sword's.
He felt it yearning, craving something intangible. His stomach twisted, his limbs grew weak, and for the first time, he realized:
This blade would not sustain him. It would consume him.
Unless he learned how to wield it.
He took a step forward, then another. The ground was uneven, riddled with jagged stones, but his body adjusted instinctively. His senses painted a map of the terrain, revealing the presence of every obstacle, every movement.
Then something shifted.
A presence.
Not human.
It slithered through the darkness, low, calculating, waiting. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as his grip tightened on the katana.
He did not see it, but he felt its breath in the wind, the anticipation in its muscles.
A predator.
And he was its prey.
Then it lunged.
A rush of air, a snarl of hunger—his body reacted before his mind did. He pivoted, shifting his weight just as teeth snapped inches from his throat.
A wolf. No, something worse.
It had the body of a beast, but its form was twisted, bones stretched unnaturally beneath fur that shimmered like oil in moonlight. A shadow-born creature, something not of this world.
The katana in his hands burned.
The hunger of the blade met the hunger of the beast, two voids clashing in an unseen battle. The sword pulsed, urging him forward. Strike.
He moved.
His grip tightened. His body twisted. And for the first time, he swung a blade.
The steel cut through the air like it belonged there, like it had always been meant to be wielded by him.
Then—silence.
The beast did not howl. It did not scream. It simply ceased.
The boy stood frozen, his body trembling. He had never killed before. But the blade—the blade had done this before.
He felt it drink.
The hunger of the sword faded. The void within him steadied.
And somewhere deep inside, a whisper echoed.
"You are learning."
He moved again before dawn, following the echoes of the unseen.
Each step refined his senses.
He felt the pressure of distant mountains, the quiet pulse of rivers buried beneath the earth. He could hear the silent hum of the world's breath, the slow march of time itself.
He was blind, but sight was no longer necessary.
The katana remained at his side, untouched since the battle with the beast. He did not wield it carelessly. He knew now that it was not simply a weapon—it was a force, an extension of something beyond him.
And it was waiting.
Waiting for him to become worthy of the katana
By nightfall, he found himself in the ruins of an abandoned temple.
The air was heavy here, thick with the weight of forgotten spirits. Stone pillars stood half-buried in the earth, shattered by time and war. At the temple's center, an altar remained untouched—and upon it lay another sword.
Not one of the Three Final Blades, but something ancient nonetheless.
The moment he stepped forward, the ground beneath him shifted.
He was not alone.
Figures emerged from the shadows, their movements soundless. Not men, not beasts—but something between. Their eyes were hollow, their bodies wrapped in tattered remnants of old armor.
They were not living.
They were echoes.
Ghosts of swordsmen long dead, bound to this place by the weapons they could never let go.
The katana at his side pulsed, recognizing the challenge.
"Prove yourself."
The first ghost attacked.
The boy barely had time to react—but time itself slowed.
He felt the shift in the air before the blade reached him. He sensed the weight of the strike, the intention behind it.
And he moved.
The katana was in his hands before he could think, its hunger awakening once more.
The first clash rang through the temple, a soundless battle between the living and the dead.
He did not fight with strength.
He fought with instinct.
He did not see.
He felt.
His sword wove through the air, meeting steel, deflecting, cutting. Each strike was not a choice, but a certainty.
One ghost fell. Then another.
The last warrior remained.
This one was different.
Its form was sharper, its presence stronger. It did not strike mindlessly, but with the discipline of a master.
For the first time, the boy struggled.
A blade sliced across his arm—pain bloomed, real and sharp.
He faltered.
And in that moment, the ghost's blade descended toward his heart.
Then the katana in his hands moved on its own.
Fate bent.
He stepped forward, not back. His sword curved through the space where time had not yet caught up.
And he cut through the final ghost.
Silence returned.
The echoes faded.
And the temple was still once more.
The boy stood alone, blood on his arm, breath unsteady.
The katana at his side was silent now. No longer hungry.
He turned to the altar.
The sword that had been resting there was now within his reach.
Another weapon. Another path.
Did he take it?
Or did he walk away?
His fingers brushed against the hilt.
Then—
A voice whispered in the air, the same presence that had given him his first blade.
"The path of the sword is not in how many you wield… but in what you choose to carry."
The boy exhaled.
He let go.
And he walked away.
Because he already carried the blade that would define his fate.
And that was enough.