The world beyond the cave stretched endlessly, vast and indifferent, its horizon blurred by distance and the faint shimmer of heat rising from the earth, yet Raizen did not step forward into it immediately, because despite everything that had changed—his body, his power, his very existence—he understood with absolute clarity that stepping into that world without preparation would be no different from offering himself to it.
Instead, he remained at the cave's threshold, where shadow and light met in quiet contrast, his gaze lowered slightly as his focus turned inward, toward the one advantage that now separated him from the version of himself that had once been discarded without hesitation.
The ring.
Not just a storage artifact.
A legacy.
A king's accumulation of power, knowledge, and conquest.
"…Weapons first," he said quietly, his voice calm, yet carrying a weight that came not from confidence, but from certainty, because in a world where strength dictated survival, the choice of weapon was not preference—it was identity.
Without hesitation, he accessed the spatial ring, and the moment his consciousness touched its interior, the vast, layered space unfolded before him once more, revealing its contents not as a chaotic collection, but as a meticulously organized domain where every item had its place, its purpose, its history.
Weapons revealed themselves in endless variety.
Blades of different shapes and origins rested in perfect alignment, spears stood arranged in ordered rows, artifacts lay sealed within isolated sections, each radiating faint traces of power that hinted at their origin, while others remained completely silent, their danger concealed beneath an absence of presence that felt far more unsettling than any visible aura.
Raizen did not rush.
He observed.
Measured.
Rejected.
"…Too heavy," he murmured as his awareness passed over a massive greatsword, its structure designed for overwhelming force, yet entirely unsuitable for his current state, where strength remained limited and efficiency was paramount.
"…Too slow," he added as a warhammer came into view, its sheer weight alone enough to make it impractical, regardless of its destructive potential.
"…Too restrictive," he concluded when examining a set of dual blades, recognizing instantly that while they offered versatility, they demanded a level of coordination and mastery that would cost him time—time he could not afford to waste.
He continued.
Not searching for power alone.
But for compatibility.
Then—
A voice interrupted.
"You're thinking too much."
Raizen's eyes narrowed slightly, though his expression remained otherwise unchanged, his thoughts pausing only briefly before resuming their sharp, calculated flow.
"…Then suggest something," he replied, his tone even, neither dismissive nor accepting, but open to evaluation.
A brief silence followed, as though the presence within him was considering not just the question, but the one asking it.
"Take the katana."
Raizen did not move immediately, because suggestion alone meant nothing without reason.
"…Why?" he asked.
A faint exhale echoed within his mind, carrying with it a trace of something almost resembling amusement.
"Because you are not strong enough to dominate."
The words were direct.
Unfiltered.
"Which means you need a weapon that compensates for it."
Raizen's gaze sharpened.
"Speed. Precision. Lethality."
A pause followed.
"A weapon that kills before strength becomes necessary."
Silence settled once more, yet this time it was not empty, but filled with quiet acknowledgment, because the logic was sound, brutally so, leaving no room for argument.
"…Show me," Raizen said.
The ring responded instantly.
Its internal structure shifted, sections moving as though alive, revealing something that had previously remained concealed, something set apart from the rest, not by distance—but by importance.
A single blade.
A katana.
Resting alone.
Black.
Not polished.
Not reflective.
But absorbing.
Light itself seemed to bend unnaturally around it, as though the blade did not merely exist within the world, but consumed a fragment of it.
Raizen reached out slowly, his fingers closing around the hilt, and the moment contact was made, a faint pulse traveled through his arm, subtle, yet undeniable, like the quiet recognition between two entities meeting for the first time.
"…This is different," he murmured.
"Demon Maiden: Sheik," the voice replied calmly.
Raizen's grip tightened slightly.
"…You named it?"
"I don't name things I don't use."
A brief pause.
"I've killed a lot with her."
Silence followed.
Raizen drew the blade slightly, revealing its edge, and unlike any weapon he had seen before, it did not shine—it did not gleam—it simply existed as something unnaturally sharp, its darkness deeper than the absence of light, as though its very form rejected the natural laws that defined the world around it.
"…It feels alive," he said.
"It responds to power."
Raizen's eyes narrowed.
"…Then it won't accept me fully."
"Not yet."
A pause.
"Which is why you will bind it."
Raizen did not hesitate.
Instead, he adjusted his grip, then moved his thumb across the blade's edge in a single, deliberate motion, allowing the steel to cut through his skin as blood welled instantly, dark red against pale flesh.
A single drop fell.
And landed on the blade.
For a moment—
Nothing happened.
Then—
The katana trembled.
Not violently.
But subtly.
The black surface rippled faintly, as though something within it had awakened, something that had been dormant, now stirred by the offering it recognized.
Raizen's breathing slowed.
"…It accepted."
"Of course it did."
A pause.
"It knows what you carry."
Raizen did not respond immediately, though the implication was clear.
Instead, he asked—
"…Will anyone recognize it?"
A brief silence followed.
"Recognize what?"
"…That it comes from the demon continent."
The answer came without hesitation.
"No."
A pause.
"They will feel something is different."
Another pause.
"But they will not understand why."
Raizen nodded slightly, satisfied.
Because attention, at this stage, was not an advantage—it was a threat.
He sheathed the blade fully, the motion smooth, controlled, his body already beginning to adapt to its presence, as though the connection formed through blood had accelerated that process beyond what should have been possible.
"…Now," he said quietly, "…techniques."
The ring opened once more.
Books appeared.
Hundreds.
No—thousands.
Each containing knowledge that could alter the course of his growth entirely.
Raizen began scanning them, his mind moving with precision, absorbing fragments, discarding inefficiencies, searching not for complexity, but for something that aligned with his current state, something that would allow him to grow faster, sharper, stronger within the limited time he possessed.
Then—
He stopped.
A single title.
"…Flow."
He opened it.
And the moment he did, the world seemed to shift, not physically, but conceptually, as though the words within carried an understanding that extended beyond simple technique, touching something deeper.
Everything is in constant movement.
Nothing is still.
Nothing is fixed.
Raizen's eyes sharpened.
Flow is the foundation of existence.
To follow it is to move with the world.
To control it… is to defy it.
His grip tightened slightly.
World Flow.
Time Flow.
Air Flow.
And beyond.
"…This…"
For the first time—
There was genuine interest.
Then—
"You won't master it."
The voice cut in sharply.
Raizen paused.
"…Why?"
A brief silence followed.
Then—
"Because I tried."
Raizen's eyes narrowed.
"And I failed."
The words settled heavily.
That—
Was unexpected.
"…You?" Raizen asked quietly.
"Yes."
A pause.
"So don't waste your time."
Raizen closed the book slowly, his expression returning to calm, though his eyes retained that same depth, that same sharpness that had not diminished in the slightest.
"…I'll decide that myself."
Silence followed.
Then—
"Before that," the voice continued.
A pause.
"Check something else."
Raizen's gaze shifted slightly.
"…What?"
"Your transformation."
Raizen accessed the system.
The interface appeared instantly, its glow faint yet clear, displaying information that had not been present before.
His eyes moved.
And stopped.
Skill: Partial Demon Transformation
After obtaining the Demon King's bloodline, the user can transform partially into a demon, significantly increasing all physical and magical attributes.
Raizen's pupils shrank slightly.
"…Significantly…"
The word lingered.
Because if that was true—
Then his current state—
Was not his limit.
"…So this is the real advantage," he murmured.
"One of them."
Raizen exhaled slowly, his grip on the katana tightening slightly as his gaze lifted toward the horizon, where the world awaited, vast and unforgiving.
"…Nine months."
His voice was quiet.
Yet absolute.
"…I will master everything I can."
The blade.
The flow.
The transformation.
The cores.
Everything.
Because when the time came—
He would not enter that academy as a failure.
Nor as an extra.
But as something far more dangerous.