It was a burning wasteland.
Crimson flames and thick smoke swallowed the sky and earth. Smoke draped the world like a curtain; distant mountains flickered in and out of the firestorm. Nearby, dry grass was devoured by the blaze, sparks flying everywhere.
Shane stood in the middle of the inferno. The heat rolled over him in waves, but strangely, he felt no pain.
Only a heavy, suffocating sense of "presence" pressing against his skin from all directions.
He glanced around. Everywhere the eye could see, the ground was studded with broken swords and shattered blades.
They rose like gravestones—countless, crowded, carrying a mute, nameless sorrow that stretched on to the edge of sight.
Then—
Clang.
A clear, ringing hammer strike cut through flame and smoke and landed straight on his soul.
Drawn as if by instinct, he moved toward it without thinking.
The scorched earth burned beneath his feet; jagged shards of steel snagged his steps.
Along the way, the scattered swords grew denser—their "quality" visibly climbing. Rough scrap iron gave way to shining weaponry, each with its own unique form, all pointing like pilgrims in the same direction.
Finally, at the heart of the brightest blaze, he saw him.
Shane's heart jolted.
It was the swordsmith he'd seen in the earlier vision. But he was no longer that mountain of a man in his prime.
He was stooped now, thinner. A head of wild white hair whipped in the furnace wind.
Years and fire had burned him hollow. Scars and deep wrinkles crowded his skin. Only his eyes remained unchanged—bright, burning with a heat that outmatched the flames around him.
His gaze never left the object in his hands—a sword-blank, hammered until it glowed a deep, dark red.
The fire that felt like it could burn the world clean seemed to be leaking out from this bent frame.
Shane held his breath. A month of forging had convinced him he wasn't bad.
But the old smith's movements, slow and simple as they looked, made no sense to him at all.
Each rise and fall of the hammer, each turn of the metal, was wrapped in a wordless rhythm.
He wasn't just forging a blade.
He was forcing life into cold iron.
Shane sank into the sight, forgetting himself, letting the blaze drawn from that old man wash over him.
It felt like he too had been thrown into the forge.
He didn't know how long it went on.
Under the thousandth hammer blow, the sword's shape approached perfection. Its lines flowed like they'd grown that way; cold light flickered under the red surface.
Then the old smith finally raised his head and turned toward Shane—or rather, toward where Shane stood. But his eyes didn't quite focus, as though he were staring into empty air.
In a rough yet piercing voice, he spoke:
"Men grow old."
Thud. The hammer fell. Sparks flew like blood across the ravines of his face.
"No matter how strong the flesh, it fails. Souls rot with time, twist and stink."
Thud. Another blow—light flared and dimmed along the blade like breathing.
"No matter what you do, evil grows back like weeds—cut down, it returns."
He pressed his foot down, heavy, on the unseen bellows.
Whoosh—
The flames surged up, swallowing him and the sword completely.
"What do we do? Raise the hammer. Pound into the iron the conviction to save all beings."
The rhythm never faltered.
"What do we do? Stamp the bellows. Let every gust of air carry in the memory of our own redemption."
Wind and fire roared, reflecting in his steady, burning gaze. The sword blazed in that light.
"What do we do? Quench it with your own bare hands. Let every hiss of cooling ring with the sum of your life."
He actually grabbed the white-hot blade with his exposed hands and plunged it into a vat of murky oil that had appeared at his side.
Sssss—
A burst of smoke, like the last howl of a life burning out.
"This body… exists to forge swords."
His voice trembled; his outline grew transparent in the fire.
"Even if this flesh turns to smoke, even if my name is forgotten, even if all I've forged ends as dust…"
With those almost prophetic words, he lifted the hammer one last time, poured the last of his life into it, and brought it down—
CLANG—!
The sound wasn't iron on iron anymore. It was like a massive bell, ringing across the burning wilderness, freezing even the flames. Silence fell.
The old smith slowly drew the finished blade from the fire.
Across the wasteland, every other sword shattered into dust, as if every steel edge on earth had given itself up to this one.
The blade was clear as still water, sharp enough to reflect the soul. The hamon shimmered like mountain ranges—or surging flames.
Its cool, pale edge stood in eerie harmony with the surrounding blaze.
"This sword. Only this one," he murmured, staring at it like it held his entire life.
"Forged for the sake of the living."
"My name is Senji Muramasa…"
"This blade shall be—Tsumukari Muramasa."
As the words left his lips, his withered body began to crumble from the fingertips, turning to drifting sparks that the fire calmly swallowed. There was no struggle, no regret—only the peace of a duty fulfilled.
In the end, he vanished completely into the flames, as if he'd never been.
The fire over the plain began to recede like the tide.
Where he had stood, there was only a single katana stuck in the scorched earth.
Shane stared at the blade this man had cast his life into. It reflected the dying embers—and his own tangled face.
The smith's sorrow and resolve, hammering away on behalf of the world, pressed heavy on his lungs. He could barely breathe.
"But why… him?"
He lowered his head and stood amidst the cinders in silence. Beyond being swept up in that emotion, he had a bellyful of confusion.
The vision in front of him shook his worldview harder than finding out this world had Christmas.
"How could it be him? How could it be him? How could it be him?"
He bit his thumb and turned it over in his head, getting nowhere.
He didn't know how many times he repeated the question.
Eventually he took a searing breath, stepped forward, and wrapped his hand around the still-burning hilt.
Then, softly, he spoke the name:
"Muramasa. Senji Muramasa."
His voice rolled across the wasteland, and something shifted.
The last lingering flames winked out. On instinct, Shane swung the blade in a single cut—
And the entire world—the plain, the cinders, the sky—cracked like glass and shattered around him.
A wave of vertigo slammed into him. His eyes flew open, heart pounding in his chest.
"Shane! You're awake!"
He saw a blur of scarlet hair, and Erza's face, tight with worry.
It looked like she'd been there the whole time. Her dark eyes were full of concern she couldn't hide.
His vision was still hazy; the image of flames and the old smith dissolving in fire overlapped with the warm light of the room.
He lay there for a moment, letting his brain catch up to reality and the softer glow of the lamps.
Then he lifted a hand and lightly patted Erza's back. "I'm fine," he said quietly. "What's wrong?"
~~~
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