The snow fell in a slow, heavy silence, each flake drifting like the world itself was holding its breath. Yet the stillness was a lie—beneath it, the battlefield throbbed with tension, screams muffled by the endless white.
Shinsei's breath came ragged, steaming in the cold air. He was the only one left standing without panic in his eyes, but his chest rose and fell in deep, measured rhythm.
He knelt, one knee pressed into the snow, staring at the thing before him.
Gorozai.
The demon's grotesque form loomed like a mountain that had decided to stand and kill. Muscles knotted beneath bone-plated skin, veins glowing faintly with the corruption of ancient Flow. Its breath misted in the frigid air, but the heat from its body warped the snow into steam.
Shinsei's right hand trembled—not from fear, but from the effort of holding back the flood within him.
Behind him, Zenith clutched his chest, his voice cracked.
Zenith: "I… I used Oborowa Mandala… all my bones… feel shattered!"
Shinsei rose to his feet with a slow exhale, the kind that sharpened the spirit. His hand gripped his katana's hilt until the leather wrapping bit into his skin.
A subtle shift in his posture — his stance perfected.
From behind, Suno spoke low, almost reverent.
Suno: "…He's not willing to back down."
Shinsei turned his head slightly, catching Suno's gaze from the corner of his eye.
Shinsei: "It'd be such a shame… if this young generation of talents wasn't allowed to fully bloom."
His eyes lifted toward the winter sky, to the pale sun struggling through the clouds.
Shinsei: "…Ah… so this is what it feels like…"
The words carried a strange peace.
Then Gorozai roared.
It was not the sound of a beast—it was the collapse of a mountain, the eruption of a volcano. The shockwave ripped through the snow and air alike, flattening soldiers where they stood. Some were dead before they hit the ground.
Before the echo faded, a deep-blue light split reality.
A portal tore open in the air beside Shinsei, its edges lined with ancient runes. He reached in without hesitation and pulled forth a blade—the steel shining like the first morning after a thousand nights.
Suno's eyes widened despite the blood dripping down his forehead.
Suno: "…That's another Mythic Blade…"
His gaze darted to Shinsei's other hand.
Suno: "The one he already carries is the Jade Dragon… and this… this is…"
The new blade gleamed azure, its surface alive with the shimmer of an ocean's horizon.
Zenith's breath caught in his throat.
Shinsei looked over his shoulder, and for the first time in this battle, a faint smile curved his lips.
Shinsei: "…Heh. This belonged to your father, Zenith. I wanted you to have it… someday."
No more time for words.
Gorozai lunged—fast enough to make the air wail. Shinsei's twin blades flashed. One clean stroke… and the demon's massive body split evenly in two.
The halves hit the snow, steaming.
And then… knitted themselves together as though the cut had never been.
From the sidelines, Ishiguro's eyes went wide.
Ishiguro: "…What was that…?"
Above them, Raijin's voice trembled in its godlike depth.
Raijin: "…What was that… just now…?"
Suno's gaze sharpened as understanding dawned.
Suno: "…He's not just fighting with his Flow anymore… He's burning his life force."
Shinsei's stance shifted.
Shinsei: "Eighth Flow—Twin Meteors."
The Jade Dragon swept left. The Azure Blade swept right. Two arcs of divine precision carved deep into Gorozai's form, light bursting from the wounds… only for flesh to knit once more.
The demon countered, its claws a blur, but Shinsei moved—effortless, wind over water—and was already above it.
Shinsei: "Ninth Flow—Twin Massacre."
The air screamed as a storm of slashes fell, each strike cutting deeper, faster, sharper. The snow itself seemed to flee the blows, leaving streaks of bare earth beneath their ferocity. Gorozai's roars were almost human in their frustration… but still, he regenerated.
Snow swirled in the wind, blurring the battlefield into a shifting haze of white and blood. Every movement in that frozen world seemed slower… except for Shinsei's.
He landed lightly after his barrage, the twin blades poised in a mirrored guard. Each breath left his lips in plumes that curled like incense smoke.
From the sidelines, Ranka's voice cracked with disbelief.
Ranka: "J–just what is this Ronin…?"
Ayame's eyes followed every strike, every pivot, searching for a pattern.
Ayame: "…He hasn't performed the same attack twice."
Suno's gaze was steady, but his words carried weight.
Suno: "Of course. You've never read the Chronicles of Shinsei… because they were erased from every archive after he abandoned the Citadel—and stole the Azure Blade."
Gasps rippled among the younger warriors.
Suno continued, his voice almost distant as he spoke to no one and everyone.
Suno: "The tale speaks of an orphan… whose parents were devoured by war. A child who refused the shelter of any clan… and instead sought refuge in the deep forests. There, beneath the moonlight and among the whispering trees, he forged his own path. A thousand techniques perfected through solitude. A thousand victories claimed without witnesses. The Samurai of the Forest… Shinsei."
And now, that very legend was unfolding before their eyes.
Shinsei moved—not like a man, but like nature itself. His steps were the dance of falling leaves caught in the gentlest wind, his slashes like streams carving through stone after centuries. He flowed between forms without hesitation, every strike an answer to the unspoken rhythm of the battlefield.
Shinsei: "Seventh Flow—Perfected Zero Cut!"
His blade shimmered, slicing through the air without resistance, as though it severed the very concept of distance.
Shinsei: "Eighth Flow—Dragons Rise!"
Both blades curved upward, twin arcs of emerald and azure light spiraling into the clouds before crashing down into Gorozai's hulking form.
Shinsei: "Sixth Flow—Serpent Bite!"
A thrust, low and precise, twisting as it pierced—like the fangs of a viper striking the heart.
But still… Gorozai regenerated.
The demon's roar rolled like thunder through the snowstorm, shaking frost from the branches of distant pines. And then… something shifted.
A third golden eye split open on its forehead, gleaming with a terrible clarity.
Far away, in a dimly lit chamber, Kenzo Shinigami watched from within a swirling crimson orb. His smile was thin.
Kenzo: "…It finally activated its mythic ability."
He leaned forward, tapping a finger against the orb's surface, like a man urging his prey to dance faster.
Kenzo: "Now show me… the power of the Eye of the Ever-Turning Wheel—Shingan Kōrin."
On the battlefield, Gorozai's gaze locked on Shinsei. The third eye burned, spinning like a wheel of molten gold.
Shinsei's advance didn't falter—until the first cut landed.
It was clean. Too clean. Blood trailed from his torso as he slid back a single step.
From the sidelines, Zenith strained against invisible weight.
Zenith: "Dammit! I… I can't move a muscle!"
Tears burned his eyes, blurring the sight of the man he respected most standing alone before the demon.
In his mind, fragments of Shinsei's lessons and laughter surfaced like drifting lanterns.
Shinsei stepped forward again.
Another cut—this time across the face, dangerously close to his eyes.
Blood streaked his cheeks, mingling with the snow.
The realization came in his own ragged chuckle.
Shinsei: "…Ah… clairvoyance. You can… foresee my attacks."
Around them, silence deepened. Even the clash of battle elsewhere seemed to dim, drawn into the gravity of this duel.
To the disciples watching, Shinsei's bloodied form, still upright with blades in hand, was not a sight of defeat… but one of stubborn, unyielding beauty.
Shinsei laughed—a sound not of madness, but of genuine amusement.
Shinsei: "…Who would have thought… I could ever be such an impact."
Suno's eyes narrowed, the shape of something impossible forming before him.
Shinsei turned once more toward the pale winter sun. The light caught in his eyes, and for a heartbeat, he looked younger—like the orphan boy who had once stood beneath forest canopies, dreaming of a place in the world.
He exhaled, lowering into a stance so deliberate, so precise, it seemed to shift the air around him.
Suno's voice trembled.
Suno: "No… way. That's… that's the stance of victory—Tensei no Kamae."
His next words came like a confession.
Suno: "The most perfect stance of any samurai… I've only ever heard of it in legends."
The snow swirled slower, as though time itself acknowledged what was about to come.