Blade of Ascension

  Chapter 1 The Unyielding Monk:

  A lone traveler traversed the land, hoping to find shelter from the imminent storm. His name was Kenshiro. After cutting through the brush, a small structure revealed itself. It was forged from an eerie material—dark, smooth, almost devouring light itself. Kenshiro's gaze lingered on it. This will be a place of reckoning, he thought.

  What he meant by that is not known yet. A man came walking out of the building, lantern in one hand, a bō in the other. Kenshiro was not frightened, only intrigued. The presence of another being in this desolate place was unexpected, yet he remained steady. He asked, "Who are you?" The man did not answer. In an instant, he surged forward with such inhuman speed that Kenshiro instinctively stepped back.

  The dust swirled; the air itself seemingly displaced by his movement. When the veil of dust settled, the man finally spoke, his voice no louder than a susurrus: "I am what you seek." The words drifted through the air like a hushed breath, yet they carried a weight Kenshiro could not ignore. At that moment, he understood this was not a mere man, but something beyond mortal. Kenshiro said, "I seek a duel, something to hone my blade's edge once more." A distinct quietness settled over the land. For a moment, the world stood still. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, the man pulled back his robe, revealing his face.

  He had sharp blue eyes glowing in the darkness with a shaved head and a scar on his left cheek. Kenshiro recognized him at once — this was a disciple of the Yatsukaha Order. They were a breakaway Buddhist clan that believed in ascension not through enlightenment but through suffering, pain, and sacrifice.

  Kenshiro knew this would be no simple duel. His opponent was beyond mortality. With a steady hand, he drew his trusted katana, its Damascus steel shimmering faintly in the dim light. The blade sang as it left the sheath, its sharp whisper cutting through the air, now thick with tension.

  A deep silence hung between them. The wind dared not stir. The heavens watched, and the earth beneath Kenshiro’s feet felt heavier than before. The monk stood motionless, bō gripped tightly in one hand. His glowing blue eyes bore into Kenshiro—neither human nor divine, just an abyss staring back.

  Then, the world snapped. The monk vanished. Kenshiro’s instincts roared to life as his body twisted just in time. A hurricane of force tore through the air where he had stood, the monk’s bō slamming into the ground with a deafening boom, leaving behind a crater of monstrous proportions. The sheer impact sent dust and debris spiraling into the air.

  No mortal should move like this. Kenshiro’s katana was already in motion before his mind caught up. A flicker of steel, a whisper of death—he lunged. The monk spun with impossible grace, the end of his bō coming up to meet Kenshiro’s blade with a sharp clang. Sparks danced in the darkness as steel met wood, but the bō held strong. A ruthless exchange erupted. Kenshiro struck—one, two, three slashes—each met with fluid deflections.

  The monk’s movements were effortless, his counterattacks like the shifting wind. He fought not with raw aggression, but with terrible inevitability, as if time itself was guiding his blows. Then, he attacked in earnest. A crushing strike. The bō blurred, arching toward Kenshiro’s ribs. He barely twisted away before another blow shot toward his skull.

  Ducking. Pivoting. Countering.

  The speed was monstrous, each strike hammering the air itself. A narrow dodge brought Kenshiro within reach. With an explosive step, he lunged, katana flashing toward the monk’s exposed flank. A sure kill. But the monk simply wasn’t there. A chilling whisper followed.

  "You do not yet understand pain."

  Then, the force hit him. Kenshiro barely saw the movement before the bō slammed into his chest. A brutal thud. Air fled his lungs. His ribs screamed in protest as his body lifted from the ground, sent flying backward. He crashed through the brittle remains of a dead tree, the impact jarring his spine as he rolled to a stop.

  Darkness pressed at the edges of his vision. His breathing was shallow, ragged. He forced himself to rise, katana digging into the dirt for support. The monk stood where he had been moments ago, unmoving, his bō now resting across his shoulders. He was smiling. The wind had returned. But now, it carried something different. The scent of blood. Kenshiro wiped his mouth, tasting iron. This was only the beginning.

  Kenshiro’s body was failing him. His ribs felt cracked; his limbs heavy. The monk had not moved from his spot, bō resting lazily across his shoulders.

  "You are not ready," the monk said, voice like distant thunder. "And yet you seek ascension?" Kenshiro gritted his teeth, forcing himself to his feet. His grip on his katana tightened. He had to fight. He lunged. The monk did not move. A blur. A crack. Pain. The bō slammed into Kenshiro’s forearm. His vision flashed white as the bone snapped.

  The katana fell from his hands, useless. Kenshiro gasped, falling to his knees. His mind screamed at him to move, to grab his blade, to do anything. But he couldn’t. The monk crouched beside him; his expression unreadable.

  "To ascend is to suffer."

  The bō pressed against Kenshiro’s throat, cold and unyielding. "Now tell me," the monk whispered, "do you still wish to walk this path?" Kenshiro managed just barely to open his mouth and utter something: “No, I do not seek this path. I am this path, and this path is me.” With one last wielding motion, Kenshiro dragged the katana up the stone floor, sparks flying out in all directions, the sound echoing in his mind.

  "Do it."

  He strikes. A scream of pain, a call for victory. But did he win? The dust settles—the monk laying on the ground, blood dripping from his stomach, uttering one last sentence: “Kenshiro… I now bestow you with the power of the Yatsukaha bō.”

  A massive light emerging from the monk’s body as he disintegrates, disappearing into dust before Kenshiro. The bō now lays alone on the stone flooring without a master. Kenshiro uses his very last might to pick himself up off the ground and slowly makes his way over to the bō, using his katana as a crutch.

  The bō whispers to him, pick me up and harness my strength. Kenshiro picks the bō up. In an instant, a cyclone of light is formed around Kenshiro. He feels his katana being pulled. The bō glowing, and now almost shouting, “Wield me, master!” Kenshiro now understands—the monk, the bō—it is all a setup designed to lure Kenshiro in. He grips his katana harder than ever now, speaks blissfully to it: “I would never abandon you.” He strikes at the bō, cutting it as effortlessly as a Tatami Omote.

  This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

  The now separated bō reveals a blue shining orb—the soul of both the bō and the monk who wielded it. Kenshiro grips the floating orb. The moment his fingers close around it, a shockwave of energy erupts outward, rattling the earth beneath him. The orb pulses alive, resisting, demanding submission. It does not wish to be wielded; it wishes to consume. Kenshiro’s katana trembles in his grasp, as if rejecting this foreign power. The bō’s voice lingers in his mind: "Wield me, master. Become what you are meant to be." No. Kenshiro’s grip tightens around his katana. His blade is not just a weapon—it is his path, his resolve, his very soul. He raises the katana, holding the orb aloft in his other hand, and with one decisive motion— He drives the orb into the steel.

  A blinding flash of blue energy erupts as the orb shatters. But instead of breaking, its essence melts, seeping into the katana like water absorbed into parched earth. The blade glows—first silver, then deep blue, then an eerie, shifting light like the void itself. The steel twists, reforging in an instant, infused with the raw power of the Yatsukaha. The blade feels… different. Heavier, yet lighter. Faster, yet more unyielding. It hums with energy, whispering secrets only he can hear.

  Kenshiro exhales. He lifts the katana, staring at its transformed edge. The weapon no longer reflects the world around it—it devours the light. He has not abandoned his blade.

  He has ascended with it.

  The storm clouds vanish, the sun piercing through once more, bathing the forsaken land in warmth. Kenshiro stands in silence, his new weapon resting at his side.

  "This is the path."

  Chapter 2: The Forever Moving Wheel

  The monks spoke of an Engine that never slept—a device that turned the very wheel of time itself. It was sealed away, for to awaken it meant to shatter the cycle of mortal life - to become as the gods.

  Walking softly toward the grasslands, Kenshiro’s ears caught the unmistakable sound of a machine: hollow in depth, high in pitch—a haunting resonance that did not belong to this age.

  This world carries many creatures and species.

  The Kaldrith were among the most powerful to ever walk its surface. Wrought not of flesh, but of alloy and arcane logic, they unlocked the secret of perpetual motion eons ago—becoming timeless in body and mind. Some say they are echoes of the Engine itself, fragments of a will that sought to unmake the world’s limits.

  Why they vanished almost 800 years ago is not known, but in legend they forever lived on.

  Chapter 6: Miyamoto Musashi — The Last Trial

  The mist clung to the mountain pass like a shroud, coiling through the trees, swallowing the path ahead. The stones beneath his feet were slick with dew, and the air carried the scent of pine and damp earth.

  Kenshiro walked slowly, his straw sandals pressing softly into the mud, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. His journey had begun years ago, with blood, steel, and the endless pursuit of mastery. Now, it would end here—at the threshold of the divine. He had travelled across Japan, dueling masters, monks, and wandering swordsmen. He had faced the swords of daimyo retainers, the staffs of Zen monks who fought with the rhythm of the cosmos, the spears of battle-hardened warriors who knew only war.

  Each duel had sharpened his blade, his mind, his soul.

  Yet, none of them had held the key to the Blade of Ascension. Until now. The mountain road ended at a clearing, where a lone figure stood amid the swirling fog: Miyamoto Musashi. The undefeated. The living legend. He was an apparition in the mist, his hands resting on the twin hilts of his swords, his stance relaxed yet absolute. His hair, streaked with silver, fell past his shoulders, and his robes, tattered by time, bore the stains of a thousand battles.

  “You have come far, traveler,” Musashi’s voice was quiet, yet it carried through the stillness. “But the blade you seek is not meant for human hands.” Kenshiro’s fingers tightened around his hilt. “Then why does it exist?” Musashi tilted his head, eyes like black pearls reflecting the unseen depths of the world. “To test those who believe they can wield it.” Kenshiro took a step forward.

  “Then test me.”

  The silence stretched. A breath. A shift in the wind. Then, the world moved. Musashi’s sword was drawn before Kenshiro saw him move, the blur of steel slicing through the mist. Kenshiro leapt back, the whisper of Musashi’s blade passing inches from his throat. He landed with a twist, katana unsheathed, slicing downward in a controlled arc. The edge of his blade met nothing but air—Musashi was already gone. Kenshiro turned, barely deflecting the incoming strike. Sparks flew as their swords clashed, the force of the impact rippling through his arms.

  Musashi’s stance was unreadable fluid, untethered to the rigid forms of traditional kenjutsu. He was a storm without a center, and Kenshiro was fighting against the wind.

  They danced between the trees, the duel stretching into eternity, yet no time at all. Every attack Kenshiro delivered was countered before it was completed. Every feint was seen through, every movement anticipated. Musashi was not a man—he was a force of nature. Kenshiro’s breath came in sharp gasps. His muscles screamed for reprieve, but there was no room for hesitation. This duel was more than a test of skill—it was a battle of souls. To falter was to be unmade.

  Then, it happened.

  A single slash.

  A perfect cut.

  Kenshiro did not see the blade, only the crimson mist blooming across his vision. Pain lanced through his side, warm and sharp. He fell to his knees, his sword slipping from his grasp, embedding itself in the damp earth beside him. Musashi stood over him, his blade gleaming with the blood of the defeated.

  “You fought well,” Musashi said, his voice neither triumphant nor cruel. “But skill alone does not grant one the Blade of Ascension.” Kenshiro coughed, the taste of blood in his mouth. “Then what does?” Musashi sheathed his sword. “Understanding.” Kenshiro did not know how long he lay there, staring at the sky. The fog had thinned, revealing the vast emptiness above. His wound burned, but he could still move. He forced himself upright, his gaze falling on the shrine at the edge of the clearing. The Blade of Ascension rested there, untouched by time.

  A katana unlike any other, forged from a celestial steel that shifted like the skies in moonlight. It is said to be weightless, yet hold infinite gravity—the power to not only slice divine flesh, but cut reality, to create rifts in the cosmos itself. Kenshiro stood, stepping toward it.

  Musashi watched, his expression unreadable. His fingers brushed the hilt, and the world trembled. Mountains shook, trees tumbled, birds scattered into the sky. Visions flooded his mind. A thousand warriors, a thousand battles. Blood spilled across the heavens, the cries of men seeking enlightenment, seeking power.

  The blade had known many hands. None had held it for long. The truth was clear. To wield the Blade of Ascension was not to claim power—but to be consumed by it. Kenshiro lifted the sword. It was as if he were holding nothing at all. And yet, he felt the weight of all existence pressing down upon him. He understood what needed to be done. Seppuku.

  That was the final test.

  To cut away the self, to embrace oblivion. The path beyond mastery. Beyond enlightenment. To ascend. Musashi spoke from behind him, his voice softer now.

  “Do you still seek it?”

  Kenshiro closed his eyes. He knelt. And with one final breath, he drew the blade across his stomach.

  The Godly Realm:

  Darkness did not come.

  Instead, there was light. A vast, formless radiance, stretching beyond time and space.

  Kenshiro felt himself dissolve, his body falling away like dust in the wind. Yet he remained—his mind was being put through all the pain and suffering of the men before him.

  He had no form, no name. Only being.

  And in that endless moment, he understood what lay beyond the blade.

  A voice, without form, without mercy, echoed through eternity:

  “To understand is to become.

  To become is to leave. Will you become?”

  Kenshiro did not answer.

  He did not need to.

  For he was already gone.