The sky was flooded with stars.
On a quiet hill, two figures sat side by side—a grandfather and his twelve-year-old grandson.
The boy, Rasheem Emberglass, had long black hair that flowed down to his waist and eyes that burned a striking red.
Beside him sat Oroku Emberglass, his white hair draped like a veil over his shoulders, a long beard resting on his chest. His eyes were sleepy, half-lidded with age, but they missed nothing. As always, his staff leaned against his side—worn, sturdy, and never far from reach.
"Grandpa, can you tell me my favorite story?" Rasheem asked, his voice soft with excitement.
Oroku chuckled. "You never get tired of this one, do you?"
"Of course not!" Rasheem grinned. "It just sounds cooler and more real when you say it."
Oroku laughed again, his eyes crinkling. "Very well."
He looked out at the stars before beginning, voice low and steady.
"A hundred years ago, the world fell into dust. Back then, there was an empire—the Ninefold Empire. It was made up of nine great houses, each devoted to a different sacred aspect. Uzume, Seiwa, Jiketsu, Yoru, Aozora, Ryuzaki, Tsukihana, Jintei, and Seigen."
"And the Emperor was Shoren the Third, right?" Rasheem asked, already leaning forward.
Oroku nodded. "Yes. Emperor Shoren III wanted to forge the greatest katana the world had ever known. A blade not of war, but of peace and freedom. The Celestial Katana. To create it, he summoned the greatest forging clans of the age."
Rasheem frowned. "Then why didn't our clan help?"
Oroku closed his eyes and exhaled slowly. "You wouldn't understand yet. But one day… you will."
Rasheem puffed out his cheeks in frustration, but then his eyes lit up again. "You're almost at the good part—keep going!"
Oroku smiled, the lines in his face deepening. "Very well. Each of the Nine Houses forged their greatest katana, pouring their Ki into the steel. Then, through an ancient ritual, they combined them into a single blade—the Celestial Katana."
He paused.
"But—" Rasheem interrupted, grinning now.
"—But there was a divine rejection," Rasheem said, voice rising with excitement. "The heavens tore open, mountains split, and the sky cracked into those glowing rifts—Skyveins. Monsters crawled out of the dark. Echoborns. And five of the houses fell: Aozora, Ryuzaki, Tsukihana, Jintei, and Seigen."
He turned to Oroku, eyes gleaming. "And then the Ashbind Covenant Empire rose up overnight and took over everything. Now all the villages bow to them, and the people are their slaves." He chuckled despite the weight of the words. "I know it's supposed to be sad, but it's still my favorite part."
Oroku reached over and gently patted his head. "No need to be sad, because…"
"I believe one day, a hero will rise and take down the entire Empire."
They said it together, then burst into quiet laughter.
Rasheem jumped to his feet.
"That's why I want to become the strongest Samurai!"
He began swinging invisible strikes in the air—slashing vertically, then horizontally.
"I'm gonna kick the Covenant's ass for what they did to the world!"
Thwack!
Oroku's staff came down lightly on Rasheem's head.
"Owch!" Rasheem winced, clutching his head. "What was that for?!"
"What did I say about using bad words?" Oroku said, raising a brow.
"Hey, old man—that hurt!" Rasheem barked back.
Oroku just chuckled.
"What's so funny?!" Rasheem shouted, eyes narrowed.
Oroku leaned forward, his voice calm.
"Rasheem… what do you think a Samurai really is?"
Rasheem straightened, suddenly serious. "Well, a Samurai's a great warrior! They carry cool katanas and—"
"You're wrong." Oroku cut him off gently.
"Huh?" Rasheem blinked, confused.
"A Samurai isn't just about fighting," Oroku said quietly. "Being a Samurai means protecting the people you love. The way of the katana… is about trust. About having a bond with your blade—and using it not for pride, but for purpose."
Rasheem stared up at the stars, daydreaming aloud.
"I can't wait to be a strong Samurai…"
Oroku raised a brow.
"Did you even listen to anything I just said?"
Rasheem blinked and shook his head.
Oroku sighed, long and deep.
"So…" Rasheem turned toward him, hopeful. "When are you gonna teach me how to actually become a Samurai?"
Oroku crossed his arms. "Nope."
"What?! Come on—why not?" Rasheem whined.
"Because before you become a Samurai," Oroku said, voice firm, "you need to understand what it really means. The risks. The cost. Being a Samurai isn't about having the coolest katana."
Rasheem rolled his eyes dramatically.
"Okay, okay! I get it. I won't become a Samurai just to look cool and have a cool katana."
Oroku gave him a side glance. "Are you sure you get it?"
Rasheem looked up again, then smiled.
"…Maybe. But I still want to learn."
"Alright… fine," Oroku said with a chuckle.
Rasheem lit up and jumped into the air. "Finally!"
"But," Oroku said, raising a finger, "you'll have to earn it."
Rasheem landed, fists clenched with excitement.
"I'll do anything!"
Oroku raised an eyebrow. "Anything?"
Rasheem nodded eagerly.
"Then carry the burden."
"Huh?"
Oroku turned and pointed with his staff toward the narrow path leading up the cliffside. A pair of wooden buckets sat near the river, each filled to the brim with cold water. Next to them was a heavy rope harness.
"Carry both buckets up to the forge. No spilling. No stopping. Do it five times before sundown."
Rasheem blinked. "That's it?"
"That's it," Oroku said with a knowing smile. "Let's see how badly you want to be a Samurai."
"Can't we do this tomorrow? It's already nighttime," Rasheem groaned, eyeing the buckets like they were enemies.
Oroku chuckled, leaning on his staff. "A Samurai doesn't wait for the sun to rise. You said you'd do anything, remember?"
Rasheem sighed and slapped both cheeks with his palms. "You're right. This'll be a piece of cake!
The first trip was easy.
The second, not so much.
By the third, Rasheem's arms ached. His shoulders burned. The mountain wind whipped dust into his eyes as he stumbled up the rocky path.
He nearly spilled once—caught himself—kept going.
By the fourth, his legs shook. He sat at the bottom for longer than he should've, panting like a stray dog.
"I hate this," he muttered. "This isn't Samurai training… it's torture."
But he stood. And he lifted. And he walked.
When the fifth trip was done, he dropped the buckets and collapsed onto the forge steps, chest heaving.
Oroku stood above him, silent.
"You didn't even… teach me… how to fight," Rasheem groaned.
Oroku leaned on his staff. "I just did."
Rasheem squinted up at him.
"You endured. When your body screamed, you walked. When your mind quit, you moved. That is the first lesson of the Katana. Before it listens to your Ki, it tests your soul."
Rasheem, still sprawled out, gave a tired grin.
"So… I passed?"
Oroku chuckled. "You may begin."
"So… do I finally get a katana?" Rasheem grinned, a spark of hope in his eyes.
"No." Oroku's voice was flat. "Before you touch a blade, you learn to control your Ki."
Rasheem frowned, curiosity flickering beneath his disappointment. "Okay… but what is Ki, really?
Oroku turned, walking past the forge's dying embers, the glow casting shadows across his scarred back. He stopped at the training circle—a ring of scorched earth and stone carved with old sigils.
"Ki isn't a thing," Oroku said, without turning around. "It's not something you hold. It's something you are."
Rasheem followed, slower now, eyes flicking to the sigils. Some pulsed faintly—almost breathing.
"It's life, pressure, memory, intent." Oroku gestured for Rasheem to stand in the center of the circle. "It flows through every living thing. But only a few can shape it. Fewer still survive it."
Rasheem stepped into the circle, the heat rising from the ground like a heartbeat.
"And how do I shape it?"
Oroku met his eyes, and for a moment, Rasheem saw not his grandfather—but a forge-monk of war, hardened by fire and loss.
"You endure it."
With that, Oroku struck the earth with the heel of his hand. The ground lit up, and the sigils around Rasheem burst into shadow—cool, blue, and whispering with unseen voices.
"Sit. Breathe. Don't move."
"For how long?"
"Until something inside you breaks."
Rasheem sat.
The stone was warm—too warm. Heat bled up through his spine, coiling in his gut. The blue shadows flickered over his skin, casting broken patterns like glass fractured by sound.
He inhaled.
And the world changed.
The forge's crackling vanished. The wind outside stopped. Even Oroku's presence faded, until only the circle remained—the sigils thrumming with something older than language.
His chest tightened.
His breath caught.
Something pushed back from inside.
At first, it felt like fear. Then pain. Then memory—his grandfather's hands blackened by soot, the sound of hammer against steel, the ashfall on the Dead Buttes.
Then came something deeper.
Not a feeling.
A pressure.
It built behind his ribs like a second heartbeat.
He wanted to move. Just shift his weight, or look at Oroku, or blink.
But he didn't.
Because something was watching.
The sigils pulsed brighter.
Cold sweat traced his spine.
Inside him, Ki stirred—not as light, not as fire, but as shadow. It slithered along his nerves, slow and searching, tasting his will.
Endure it, he heard Oroku's voice, far away, like a memory underwater.
The pressure deepened.
Something cracked.
And Rasheem screamed—though no sound left his mouth.