The Dire Fang lunged at Takemi.
Takemi did not dodge.
He just ran toward the ruins.
Rauk's voice cracked behind him, "TAKEMI?!"
Takemi did not look back.
He shouted, "BUY ME TIME!"
As he sprinted past the broken stone walls, branches snapped under his feet.
His lungs burned, his arm.
The sound of the Dire Fang crashing through the forest behind him was getting closer.
Too close.
Takemi muttered, "This works ."
He vaulted over a pillar and slid into the center of the ruins toward the cracked stone platform.
There was a sound
"Tok."
It echoed again, clearer now, louder, as if something was calling from beneath.
Takemi dropped to his knees beside the platform, his hands already searching along the cracks.
He said, "Come on, come on."
His fingers traced the carvings, the wings, the spiral lines.
They were cold-too cold.
Then something shifted; a section of the stone sank slightly under his palm.
He heard a "Click."
Takemi froze, "Oh."
The platform trembled; dust fell between the cracks, and one portion of the stone slowly shifted downward, revealing an opening large enough for a person to squeeze through.
A breath of air escaped from below, cold and ancient.
Takemi did not hesitate, "Yep, bad idea."
He jumped in, landed hard, rolled, and coughed as dust filled his lungs.
He said, "I hate caves."
It was dark-not completely.
Enough that shapes blurred into shadows.
Faint light filtered through cracks, enough to see.
The chamber was not large, with stone walls and an uneven floor.
At the center, something stood upright.
Takemi blinked, "No way."
It was a weapon, or at least what looked like one-a sword handle planted into a stone pedestal. There was no blade, just the grip wrapped in worn dark cloth.
The guard was simple, unadorned, but the pommel had a carving: a dragon coiled tightly as if sleeping.
Takemi walked slowly, "That's it?"
There was no glow, no aura -just a handle.
He crouched in front of it, "You're telling me I almost died for a sword?"
Above him, a distant roar echoed, the Dire Fang still fighting , still winning.
Takemi clenched his jaw, "Yeah, figures."
He reached out, "Last try."
His fingers wrapped around the handle.
Everything disappeared
no sound, no ruins, no forest -just white.
Takemi stood in a space that stretched endlessly in all directions, "Okay, I'm either dead or dreaming."
A voice came from behind him, "Neither."
Takemi turned to see a man standing a few steps away, tall and calm, wearing clothing with a sword at his side-a katana-shaped sword with a blade that shimmered faintly.
Takemi blinked, "You're not gonna explain what's happening, are you?"
The man smiled faintly, "No."
Takemi said , "Cool."
The man spoke again , "You are weak; you rely on throwing."
Takemi snorted, "Yeah, I noticed . It works."
The man tilted his head slightly, "But what happens when throwing is not enough?"
Takemi did not answer, because he already knew: the Dire Fang .
The man stepped closer, "You stand at a threshold; answer this: what is a blade that never leaves your hand?"
Takemi blinked, "What?"
The man continued, "What strikes without distance yet reaches beyond it?"
Takemi frowned, "That's two questions."
The man drew his sword and swung it in a motion, effortless; the blade cut through the air and, for a brief moment, it stretched, extended like the swing itself had become the blade.
Takemi's eyes widened slightly, "Wait."
The man lowered the sword, "Remember."
Everything shattered.
Takemi gasped; air rushed back into his lungs.
He found himself back in the ruins, the chamber, the handle in his hand.
"Swing - a blade that never leaves your hand."
Above, a scream: Lira. Takemi's head snapped upward, "Shit."
He pulled the handle, slid it free from the stone pedestal, and light flickered for a second.
Takemi stared at the handle-no blade,
"You've gotta be kidding me."
Another roar echoed above-no time.
He ran, climbed, pulled himself out of the opening, and emerged in time.
The Dire Fang had broken through the line.
Rauk was down, on one knee;
the instructor was holding it back, barely. Lira had fallen.
The Dire Fang lunged for her.
Time slowed.
Takemi moved;
he did not think,
did not plan-he just remembered,
what is a blade that never leaves your hand,
the man's swing, the way the blade extended.
Takemi stepped in, raised the handle, and swung.
A sound rang out-clear, sharp, like steel colliding with steel.
The Dire Fang's claws stopped mid-strike, blocked by something; for a split second, everyone froze.
Takemi's eyes widened, "Oh."
Then it appeared: a blade-not fully-a shimmering edge extending from the handle formed by the motion of his swing.
The Dire Fang recoiled, landing steps back , confused, hurt-for the time actually hurt.
Takemi stood between it and Lira,
breathing hard,
staring at the weapon in his hand,
"So that's how it works."
He adjusted his grip, a grin forming despite everything,
"I don't just throw anymore; I swing too."