The dense, moonlit forest was eerily silent as Dextin approached his target—the latest wielder of the Red Katana. The air was thick with tension, the kind that settles before a storm. Only the faint rustling of leaves broke the quiet, like whispers from the shadows. Ahead, standing in a clearing, was a man in his twenties. His posture was rigid, his grip tight around the Red Katana, as if unsure whether to be afraid or amazed. When his eyes caught sight of Dextin, something in them shifted—recognition, maybe. Or resignation.
"You must be the Green Katana wielder," the man said, managing a faint smile. "My Red Katana spoke of y—"
But he never got the words out. Dextin disappeared and reappeared in the blink of an eye—behind him. One silent stroke. The man's head dropped clean from his shoulders, his expression still frozen in mid-sentence as it hit the earth. His body followed, crumpling beside the Red Katana, which now lay on the forest floor, glinting under the moonlight like a cursed relic.
Dextin exhaled slowly and slid his Green Katana into its sheath with a faint click. He stared at the fallen blade, a wicked curve forming at the edge of his lips.
"Who would have thought it would be this easy?" he muttered, crouching toward the glowing katana. "The Red Katana, all this power... staring right at me."
His fingers hovered inches from the hilt—
CRACK!
Red lightning exploded from the blade, hurling Dextin through the air. He slammed into the ground with a grunt, skidding through dirt and leaves. Every nerve in his body screamed.
"What… was that?" he said through clenched teeth, coughing as he tried to sit up.
The Red Katana vibrated wildly, its crimson glow pulsing before it shot upward, vanishing like a bloodstained star swallowed by the night.
Dextin's eyes narrowed. What just happened?!
Then came the voice—deep and ancient, inside his head. The Green Katana.
"You should be dead, Dextin. If not for me, you'd be ashes now."
He winced. "What are you talking about?"
"Only the chosen wielder may hold the Red Katana. Anyone else will be punished. Death is the price."
Dextin's jaw clenched. "And you didn't think to mention this before?! Useless piece of—"
The voice paused. When it returned, it was quieter. Firmer.
"If the next wielder is the Sword Master, you won't be able to take the blade from them. Not ever."
Dextin froze. That name… The Sword Master—a ghost in the world of warriors. A legend. No known weakness. No known mercy.
But fear didn't last long.
I'll still get that sword. No matter who stands in the way.
"Tell me," he said, standing now, dusting off his coat. "Where's the next wielder?"
The Green Katana hesitated, then relented, whispering a location into his mind.
And so the hunt began again.
Wielder after wielder. Body after body. Dextin was a shadow that snuffed out the light of those chosen by the Red Katana. But every time the blade escaped—flying off like it had a mind of its own.
"Damn it!" he shouted, his voice echoing through the woods. His hands were stained, not just with blood, but with failure. Too many had died. And still, the sword eluded him.
Then, a new thought surfaced.
"It only flies away when its wielder dies..." A grin formed. "Then maybe I stop killing."
"And do what?" the Green Katana asked.
"I make them give it up. Willingly."
The grin widened, sharp with cruelty.
"I'll take Xiphosia Village. Rule it. My soldiers will hunt down the next wielder. And if it's someone from the village? They'll hand it over themselves—or live as prisoners. Either way, the sword ends up in my hands."
Silence.
"You're going too far."
Dextin's smile faded. His voice dropped.
"No. I'm just getting started."
And so he did. Over weeks and months, Dextin turned the peaceful village into a fortress ruled by fear. Resistance crumbled. The brave were broken, and the rest learned to obey.
He built an army. Not from loyalty—but fear. And all the while, he kept hunting.
But change was coming.
And Dextin was too blinded by power to see it.