Kamen Rider Ixa—secondary Rider of the long-running family drama Kamen Rider Kiva—had a reputation that could only be described as legendarily bad.
What made this armor infamous, more than anything, was one of its users: Wataru Kurenai.
Known throughout the fandom as Papa Kurenai.
He wielded four belts in total—three of which were notorious for their severe side effects. The only "safe" one, they said, still squeezed a user's brain like a vice.
Thanks to him, a certain saying began circulating among Kamen Riders:
"If a belt doesn't have side effects, he won't use it."
Compared to the other belts he'd used, Ixa's armor was... relatively gentle.
Yes, it put considerable strain on the body, and yes, it would forcibly cancel transformation after a certain time limit—but after generations of iteration, even that drawback had been virtually eliminated.
What Sora wore now was the fully stabilized version—completely side-effect free.
Sora stepped forward. Before him, a barrier of light unfurled with a sharp pulse.
In its center glowed a sun-like sigil. As it opened, he walked through—each step fusing more armor onto his body.
The pristine white exosuit shimmered with a sacred light. From afar, he looked like a holy knight descending from the stars.
"Wait, Sora changed outfits again?" Robin muttered from the monitoring room.
This particular suit looked suspiciously similar to a certain elite galactic unit.
Kamen Rider Ixa – Save Mode.
In this form, the armor's defensive output reached its maximum threshold.
Sora strode from the airlock into the open void. Through the glare of the ship's auto-firing cannons, he saw them—hundreds of insectoid creatures flitting and darting through the blackness.
True Stings—offspring of the Aeon of Propagation, Tayzzyronth. Long ago, Tayzzyronth rampaged across the stars, until the Aeons banded together to destroy Him. These creatures were the remnants of that legacy.
They had other names too: The Insect King. The Sand Sovereign.
A last-born from a long-extinct terrestrial coleoptera line. Its desperate, solitary longing had ignited its Path.
Simply put—every one of these swarming bugs was His avatar, His kin, and in some sense… Him.
Even now, they continued His "divine" mission.
And these particular Stings had already begun to show why they were feared.
One of the ship's beams struck a flying bug mid-air—splitting it clean in half.
Seconds later, the two halves regenerated.
Two fully-formed Stings, where there had been one.
Just like that. Fast. Brutal. And this was after generations of containment and genetic degradation.
At the peak of Tayzzyronth's power, the very concept of "reproduction" could be rewritten as "birth by bugs."
It didn't matter what kind of life you were—cell division, machine manufacturing, even pregnancy—only Stings would emerge.
So yes, the swarm was growing fast.
Some had already reached the outer hull.
"Yeah, I don't think I can let you get that far."
Sora pulled the trigger.
BANG! BANG! BANG!
Bullets streaked through vacuum—dozens of them—slamming into the Sting with pinpoint accuracy.
Sparks scattered harmlessly across their carapaces.
No damage.
Their attention snapped toward Sora.
BZZZZZZT—
Their wings began to vibrate at supersonic speed.
And then they charged him.
"Called it," Sora muttered.
He hadn't expected the bullets to do anything. These rounds were designed for Fangires—not for space-faring insect demigods.
Maybe if he'd loaded up G4's anti-deity warheads, he might've had a shot.
This volley? Pure distraction. He needed them to focus on him.
The True Stings were fast. Their wingbeats sliced through even vacuum, sending waves of compressed air through the cabin.
One hit from something like that could rupture a normal person's organs.
Even with armor, the impact wouldn't be light.
"Time to meet your maker."
Sora pressed his Ixa Knuckle.
The anchor-shaped faceplate split open—revealing glowing red eyes beneath.
His weapon reshaped in his hand. The gun extended into a blade, pulsing with crimson energy.
He slotted the Fuestle into his belt. The sword shimmered with radiant heat.
But the glowing light show didn't even slow the Stings.
They weren't dumb, but they'd seen a lot of flash in their day.
This white-armored fool? They'd crush him like all the rest.
BZZZZZZZZT—
The wingbeats escalated.
The Stings closed in.
Sora's hand tightened on the hilt.
"Wait, is he really going in for close combat?" Robin's voice rose in concern.
True Stings did have a weak spot—narrow gaps in the exoskeleton.
But they were miniscule, almost impossible to hit.
And their armor was infamous across the cosmos for being unbreakable.
That, combined with their speed, made melee combat practically suicidal—unless you were a Pathstrider with superhuman precision.
And even then…
Robin couldn't warn him. The comms were down during battle mode.
But then—something she didn't expect.
As the Stings drew near, a solar flare-like aura ignited behind Sora.
His blade lit up. Crimson light flared bright as blood.
The Stings hit.
Sora's blade moved—not with brute strength, but with uncanny precision. The motion looked wrong, like a glitch in reality.
His sword swept through the air—
—and bisected the Sting cleanly in two.
Each half burned black in mid-air.
No regeneration. The blade had seared them from the inside out.
The True Sting was dead.
"Yep. I still prefer a sword over a gun."
Sora exhaled as he held the weapon in hand, savoring the weight.
This wasn't just muscle memory. This was divine comprehension—a byproduct of the omniscient swordsmanship he had briefly touched before.
It had etched itself into his bones.
Why fire bullets when he could cleave with such clarity?
Had the times changed again?
He shook the thought from his head and refocused. The next wave was coming.
He flicked his blade—Sting blood sizzled as it evaporated on contact with the glowing steel.
And then, without hesitation, Sora lunged.
His entire body became a streak of holy white light, dashing forward with blinding speed.
The red blade carved arcs across the void, leaving glowing trails in its wake.
And every Sting in his path?
Split in two.
Each strike struck home—every blade slash landed with surgical precision, driving into the microscopic weak points in their armored exoskeletons.
Their bodies were flash-fried, rendered incapable of regeneration.
What others could only manage by sheer luck—Sora repeated over and over with perfect, fluid rhythm.
Robin, watching from the screen, couldn't help but recall a line from one of those Xianzhou martial epics:
"Such swordsmanship has reached the pinnacle of mastery."
"Should I… enroll him in the Swordmaster Tournament on the Xianzhou?" she murmured without thinking.
The idea was absurd.
And yet… somehow, not impossible.
Even if Sora was still technically "just a regular person"—on that stage?
He'd still outshine the crowd.