The courtyard fell silent.
Riku's voice still echoed in the ears of every elder, disciple, and guardian present.
"I want to take the fifth test."
The Right Guardian narrowed his eyes, studying the boy standing before him—unreadable, silent, cloaked in the scent of blood and mystery.
"…Very well," the guardian said slowly, "But tradition states you must name the council member you wish to challenge."
He stepped forward, folding his arms. "So tell me, Riku. Whom do you choose?"
Riku's lips barely moved. "Crimson Ghost Elder."
Gasps rippled across the field.
Even the wind stilled.
"That's…" a disciple muttered.
"Isn't that… his father?"
Whispers buzzed like bees in a disturbed hive.
The Right Guardian's brows furrowed. "You are aware that he is one of your own bloodline. This challenge—"
"I know," Riku cut in. "That's why."
There was no arrogance in his tone, only resolve. As though he were stating the most natural truth in the world.
The Right Guardian held his gaze for a long time. Then, wordlessly, he reached into his inner robe and drew a small, black token, shaped like a lotus in bloom. Its surface shimmered with dark jade, etched in silver script.
"The Cult Token," he said, lifting it for all to see. "Crafted personally by the Lord of Cult. Only given to those deemed worthy to challenge the fifth test."
He handed it to Riku.
"From this moment on, you are officially recognized as a challenger. But…"
He paused, voice heavy.
"You must wait one month before the duel. You are strong, but not ready—not yet. In that time, forge your own weapon. One that reflects your path."
Riku accepted the token. "Understood."
The Right Guardian's voice carried over the courtyard. "Until then, return all of you."
The crowd dispersed slowly, many glancing back at Riku, still in disbelief. Challenging his own father… just who was this boy becoming?
Riku bathed once again, scrubbing the remnants of the Demon Cave's foul energy from his skin. Steam hissed as water boiled over glowing stones, and he closed his eyes.
The crimson lotus mark on his chest pulsed faintly.
After dressing in a fresh robe, he made his way through the southern district of the sect, where Master Artisans and blacksmiths lived and worked in their forges—men and women who shaped blades that cleaved realms and armor that defied death.
The scent of molten iron and burned incense filled the air as he arrived before a secluded workshop carved into a mountain wall. A faint rhythmic hammering echoed inside.
He stepped in.
An old man with silver hair, shirtless and glistening with sweat, stood before an anvil. His body was wiry, carved from decades of labor, and his eyes were like embers—sharp, focused, and silent.
"You're the boy who challenged Crimson Ghost?" the blacksmith asked, without turning.
"I am."
The old man turned at last, revealing his weathered face. "Name's Jun-Shi, blade artisan of the Seventh Flame. What do you want?"
"A sword."
Jun-Shi wiped his hands. "Hundreds ask for one. Few are worth it. Do you even know what a sword is?"
Riku stepped forward. "A sword is the reflection of the soul. Mine will be swift, precise, born from control—not rage."
Jun-Shi raised an eyebrow. "Talk like that's easy. Prove it. Show me something that defines your technique."
Riku nodded.
He reached out, unsheathed his current blade, and took a stance.
The air shifted.
"Heaven Severing Doctrine – Second Form: Crescent Horizon."
With one slow swing, he sliced down at a copper training post.
There was no visible strike.
But a second later, the entire post split into five curved slivers, falling silently to the floor—clean, perfect arcs.
Even the forge fire dimmed for a breath.
Jun-Shi's eyes widened just a fraction. "Precision and flow… no wasted energy."
He grunted.
"You don't need a heavy blade. No bulky nonsense. What you need… is a single-edged saber, with a curve like the moon's edge. Light. Swift. But able to carry demonic Qi without breaking."
Riku said nothing, but his eyes gleamed.
Jun-Shi turned back to the forge.
"Then listen. Your body will carry the steel. But your soul—your conviction—will temper it."
He pulled out a roll of aged parchment, sketching quickly.
"We'll use best cold iron with me and create a perfect weapon for you "
As he spoke, the blueprint came to life on paper: a curved saber with faint inlays of crimson patterns, elegant yet lethal.
Jun-Shi looked at him.
Riku smiled faintly.
"Good." The old man smirked. "Then in one month… return, and your soul will have its reflection."
Riku turned, stepping out into the twilight.
The forge behind him roared to life—metal screaming against fire, a song of creation.
And in his hand, the Cult Token pulsed faintly, as if whispering—
Soon.