CHAPTER 8 — DANCE OF THE CURSED FLAME
Season 1: Exile of the Blade
The Almighty Katana: 全能の刀 (Zennō no Katana)
By Paul Richard
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The moon hung low, a sullen crimson eye bleeding into the night sky. Kenji stood at the edge of the clearing in Yamashiro Woods, Kaede's lantern flickering behind him. The bamboo rustled with a wind that carried no scent, only whispers—like voices that didn't belong to this world.
He had sensed it hours before: a presence that didn't breathe, yet pulsed like fire in his veins. Now, standing at the edge of the ancient clearing, he saw it.
A figure in black. Still as a shadow. No footsteps. No breath.
Just the hiss of a flame… licking from the tip of a cursed katana.
The blade crackled unnaturally—embers floating upwards, defying gravity like dying prayers. It glowed orange-red, but there was no heat. Only dread.
Kaede whispered behind him, "That sword… it shouldn't exist."
Kenji took one step forward. "Who are you?"
The figure raised its head slightly. A mask—half bone, half ashwood—covered his face. Two glowing eyes peered through the cracks. "I am Kurojin," he said, voice like steel over wet stone. "Bearer of the Flame Reaper. And you… you carry Seijintō."
Kenji's fingers tightened around his blade. "How do you know that name?"
"You ask the wrong question." Kurojin took a step forward, and the grass beneath his feet burned black. "The right question is… how are you still alive?"
The cursed katana snapped into motion, a blazing arc that ignited the night.
Kenji blocked it instinctively, sparks shooting into the darkness. Seijintō groaned—a low, resonant vibration that only Kenji could hear.
Their swords clashed again, the sound thunderous in the silent woods. Every strike from Kurojin's blade sent waves of dark fire spiraling outward, scorching the air. Kenji dodged, parried, rolled—his blade growing heavier with each swing.
Seijintō began to glow.
Not like fire. But like moonlight cutting through a storm.
Kaede's voice echoed faintly from behind. "That flame... it's cursed. You can't fight him directly!"
But it was too late. Kurojin was faster than anyone Kenji had ever faced. His movements were elegant, like dance steps—a deadly rhythm of destruction. He struck low, then spun, aiming for Kenji's shoulder.
Kenji caught the blade mid-swing—steel grinding against steel.
That's when he felt it.
Seijintō… was whispering.
Words didn't form. But memories… memories not his own… flashed behind his eyes: a battle in the snow, a masked samurai bleeding out, a volcano splitting open, ten blades buried beneath ash.
Kenji gasped and stumbled back.
Kurojin stopped, tilting his head. "It's speaking to you, isn't it?" he said. "Then you really are one of the Chosen. That changes everything."
Kenji tried to respond, but Kurojin was already gone—melted into shadow like he'd never been there.
Kaede ran to his side. "You're bleeding—your shoulder."
Kenji looked down. His robe was scorched, but his skin was untouched. More than that, Seijintō was still glowing—brighter than ever.
"I think… it protected me," Kenji murmured.
Kaede frowned. "That means your blade is one of them."
"One of what?"
She looked him in the eye. "One of the Hundred."
Before Kenji could speak again, a flaming mark appeared in the sky—burning across the clouds. A symbol. A warning.
Kurojin's voice echoed on the wind:
> "You cannot run from this, Kenji Sora. Your blade has chosen. And so has mine."
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SUSPENSE ENDING:
In the distance, deep within a ruined fortress, a council of masked figures watched the sky. One of them, cloaked in violet, whispered:
> "Seijintō has awakened. The balance is breaking. Prepare the trials. The blade must return... or the world will burn."
TO BE CONTINUED...
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