"Divine weapon? Isn't that a little exaggerated?" Uchiha Shigure's voice carried a note of doubt. Even for him, this talk of mystical forging sounded far-fetched.
"It's not an exaggeration at all," the Black-Scaled Snake replied, a slow hiss trailing its words. "A snake that cultivates for a thousand years becomes a python. A python cultivating for another thousand becomes an anaconda. An anaconda cultivating for a thousand years more becomes a dragon. And a dragon? After a thousand years more, a true celestial dragon."
The Black Snake's yellow eyes gleamed, reflecting the furnace fires. "Ryūchi Cave is one of the Three Great Immortal Lands. Blessed with powerful natural energy, it hastens our evolution. That's how we sprout horns and master illusions to take human form. But ascending to true dragonhood? That dream remains distant."
Shigure gave a slow nod. He knew turning into a dragon was nearly impossible in the shinobi world. Even so, the white dragon he had fought—born of illusion though it was—had left behind tooth and scale when defeated. Logic alone couldn't explain it.
"That's why I was shocked," the Black Snake continued, "when you claimed dragon scales and dragon fangs. Now tell me, boy, what weapon do you intend to forge?"
Shigure considered. His Meteor Blade already matched his style. With one hand, he could channel chakra and invoke Flying Thunder God; with the other, he could cut down foes with terrifying speed. Another longsword of the same type for dual-wielding? Too redundant. He needed versatility.
"How about… a short blade?" he said at last.
He pictured something like Sakumo's White Fang blade—compact, deadly, suited for close combat and quick strikes. Even as he grew into his full power, such a weapon would remain useful in ambush and surprise attacks. The Meteor Blade could handle heavy combat; the fang blade would be swift and precise.
"A short blade," the Black Snake mused. "Fitting. Then we'll need to burn brighter. As for the dragon scales… I'll craft them into a suit of white scale armor for you." He turned to his apprentices and barked, "Pull the bellows! Feed the flames to forge the dragon fang!"
Shigure grabbed the handles and pressed his weight against them, pumping wind into the furnace. But the Immortal's voice rasped disapprovingly.
"Pathetic. Where is the Sage Mode from before? At this rate, the flames cannot so much as scorch dragon bone."
Closing his eyes, Shigure summoned natural energy. The shift came instantly—golden pigmentation around his eyes, strength coursing through his frame. His hands blurred as he pulled the bellows at dizzying speed. The fire roared, devouring the rushing air.
Yet even so, the blaze sputtered and began to fade.
"Fire Style: Great Fireball Technique!" Shigure inhaled deep and expelled a roaring sphere of flame into the mouth of the furnace. For a moment the fires surged—but then they faltered again.
"What?" he muttered. "Why isn't it working?"
The Black Snake Sage bared sharp fangs in a grin. "You fool. A divine weapon cannot be born through common jutsu. Watch carefully… Immortal Art: Six Ding Divine Fire!"
Mystic seals danced across the serpent's body, and with a hiss, searing white fire spilled into the furnace. The heat was overwhelming, dozens of times stronger than Shigure's own jutsu. Instinctively, he activated his golden-white Sharingan, recording every flicker of chakra molding, every rhythm of the technique.
"Now," said the serpent, voice thunderous through the forge chamber, "do not let this flame die again. Pull the bellows four hundred thousand times. Only then will the dragon fang glow red."
"Four hundred thousand times!?" Shigure groaned.
But the Sage was already reclining, pressing a hand to his injured neck. "Wake me when it's done… I'll be resting." The snake coiled in place and promptly began snoring.
Shigure stared at the bellows, his eye twitching. "Four hundred thousand? He's insane."
Yet he clenched his jaw. "But if I don't push myself now, during the next war I'll just be cannon fodder. No… I can't stay weak. I must become stronger!"
And so he set to work. The bellows groaned under his tireless rhythm—push forward, pull back, once, twice, thrice… each cycle one count. He refused to summon shadow clones, refused to dilute the training. This wasn't just forging; this was a battle of endurance, body and will.
Through his doujutsu, he noticed something strange. The flames did not consume wood or coal. They burned on nothing—on pure natural energy, ignited by sage fire.
"No wonder ordinary Fire Style failed," he marveled quietly. "The forge itself runs on senjutsu."
The dragon fang glowed faintly, but progress was glacial.
As the hours dragged, the immortal fire waned. Shigure wasted no time, weaving hand signs. "Immortal Art: Six Ding Divine Fire!" He spat white-hot flame, reigniting the furnace. If he hadn't memorized it, every pull would have been wasted.
He tracked his progress carefully. Roughly every eighty thousand pulls, he needed to stoke the flame anew. At last, five times he had restored it. His arms were numb, lungs heaving, but the tally was complete.
"Four hundred thousand!" he shouted, shaking the Sage awake.
The Black Snake cracked open an eye, nodded slightly, and produced a massive sledgehammer. "Well done. Now comes the real work. Two hundred fifty thousand strikes. Steady force each time."
He handed the hammer to Shigure. It nearly wrenched him to the ground.
"What the hell is this thing!? It's heavier than stone!" he grunted, barely able to lift it.
"If it were light, it couldn't temper a dragon's fang," said the Sage, chuckling darkly. With his own tiny hammer, he tapped the glowing tooth, shaping its rough outline into a blade. "Now strike. And remember—you must remain in Sage Mode."
"But I just exhausted—"
The serpent cut him off, tossing a small, shimmering pill. "Here. My own elixir. Restores your sage chakra in an instant."
Suspicious, Shigure swallowed the bead. Power surged through him, so overwhelming it startled him. His chakra reserves—at least doubled.
"What… what's in this!?"
"Do you think divine smithing is cheap?" sneered the snake. "Draw it out too long, and it dies. Now smash!"
Grinning despite himself, Shigure drew in the overflowing energy. "Sage Mode—on!" The pigments returned. He lifted the hammer, now lighter in his hands than before, and brought it down against the tooth with a resounding crash.
The impact shivered through the chamber. Chakra leapt from the hammer into the fang, binding, tempering, sinking deeper with every strike. Each swing drained him slightly, yet simultaneously refined both weapon and wielder.
Minutes melted into hours. Strike after strike, the rhythm of forge and heartbeat merged. The fang took form—curved edge, gleaming white steel-like sheen.
Beside him, the Black Snake Immortal hammered in counterpoint, coaxing the shape further with meticulous taps. Sparks scorched the air.
And then, amid the endless pounding, Shigure noticed something else—a shadow, moving across the far wall. Not one cast by flame or hammer. Someone—or something—lurking beyond the forge.
His Sharingan narrowed sharply.
Without pausing, he swung again, but his mind shifted. A blade was being born here. A divine weapon destined for chaos or order.
And somebody else clearly knew it.
--
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