The forge roared louder for the first time tonight.
The sun had long vanished beyond the mountains, and the clouds above twisted in slow, heavy spirals. The smell of iron, ash, and oil drifted thick in the air as Shiori stood in front of the blazing pit, sweat already gathering at the nape of his neck. He didn't flinch, didn't blink, not even when the embers bit at his skin. His hands were busy — one holding steel with the tongs, the other raising the hammer.
The base was nearly done, a crude shape carved from an old steel spearhead passed down from the main family armory. With every strike, the metal moaned and curled, folding inward and locking in the cursed jade, obsidian shards, and phoenix ash he had ground into dust days prior. His cursed energy danced with the fire, keeping the mixture alive and volatile.
This wasn't a forging done through magic. It was blood, heat, patience, and control. His control.
Lightning crackled far above the estate. Shiori didn't look up. He'd been waiting for this storm for days.
He drew a long breath and stepped away from the anvil, raising the newly-forged shell toward the sky. Thunder answered, deep and rumbling across the Gojo estate's mountainside.
The sky split open.
A bolt of lightning crashed down, straight into the weapon.
The world went white.
Shiori staggered slightly but did not fall. The steel screamed under the force — yet it didn't break. The cursed materials fused together, glowing veins of molten jade streaking across its dark surface. Obsidian rippled like volcanic glass along the shaft. From the core, sparks burst outward like starfire.
And just as it began to dim, a faint, clear voice echoed inside his head — no robotic tone, just the words flowing as if they had always existed inside the weapon:
[Musou Isshin, has been born.]
The name branded itself into his mind. Thunderlight. It was fitting.
Raikō pulsed gently in his hand. The storm recognized it now. So did he.
Somewhere behind the warded garden, a guard watching from afar nearly dropped his binoculars.
"Lightning struck right where young master Shiori was…"
He ran. Straight to the clan head's quarters.
Inside the Gojo estate, the clan head looked up from his scroll as the door burst open.
"What is it?"
The guard stammered, "A strike, my lord. A weapon. He… he forged something under the storm."
The clan head stood in silence for a moment, then quietly set his scroll down.
Outside, several other guards had gathered just beyond the boundary of Shiori's wards, trying to see through the dense protective aura. They could sense it — a violent shift in the cursed energy around the forge. Like the air itself was holding its breath.
"What is that…? That pressure… it's like the Six Eyes, but twisted with steel."
"No," said one of the older elders, stepping out into the courtyard, robes fluttering. "That's not the Six Eyes. That's something else entirely. Something crafted."
One of the younger guards leaned forward to whisper, "Isn't he only… five?"
The elder didn't answer. He was too focused on the pulse coming from beyond the trees.
Far across the city, in a Kamo clan outpost, a hidden informant dropped a transmission scroll.
"Lightning storm detected over Gojo estate… but it wasn't natural. It concentrated. Grounded. Like it was drawn in by a cursed tool."
A Zenin operative raised an eyebrow, tapping his fingers against a map.
"They've already grown cursed fruits. Now they're forging weapons that can call the sky?"
"Doesn't matter. We find a way to match it."
"No. We wait."
Back at the forge, Shiori set Raikō across a stone pedestal to cool. His fingers traced the weapon's edge gently, admiring the fractal obsidian patterns carved by the lightning. The blade hadn't just been born — it had been baptized.
He didn't need anyone to tell him how strong it was.
He already knew.
"I'll use this," he whispered, voice soft as smoke, "to protect the garden. To protect what's mine."
His lips curled into a quiet, tired smile.
"And to burn anyone who thinks they can take it." And then Shiori fainted.