The sea had changed.
That evening, as the Red Blade drifted further from the Singing Cliffs, the wind began to shift—no longer warm and salt-sweet, but cold and sharp, like a knife drawn through damp wool. The stars appeared one by one, but the moon remained hidden, swallowed by thick grey clouds that seemed to circle them like a closing trap.
Ankit stood at the bow again, arms folded. His swords hadn't left his back since the fight with Flambeaux. His body still ached from the impact. That fight hadn't been just a test of strength—it had taught him the limits of his current control.
He needed more than reflexes. He needed control, precision.
Shanks joined him with a lantern swinging loosely in his hand. "We've got a problem. The navigator says we're veering toward the Dusk Shoals."
Ankit's brow tightened. "Those are the waters where compasses twist and stars vanish."
"Bingo." Shanks grinned. "Want to take a detour into madness?"
Before Ankit could answer, a sharp bell rang out from the crow's nest.
"Light on the water! Off the starboard side!"
The two dashed to the rail. Out in the misty gloom, a faint glow pulsed over the sea. Then another. It was rhythmic—almost musical.
They changed course.
The ship slowed as it approached a floating vessel—a small drifting skiff wrapped in black sails, its hull made of pale bonewood. Lanterns made of fishglass swayed along the sides, casting ghostly reflections. Upon the deck stood a single figure—cloaked, barefoot, motionless.
A flute's tone hung in the air. Melancholic. Ancient.
The figure slowly lifted its face. A woman—no older than them—eyes blindfolded, lips parted around a bone-carved flute. But she wasn't breathing. She wasn't alive in the ordinary sense.
The music paused. Her head turned toward the Red Blade.
"You have entered the Dying Moon's path," she said softly. "Only one of you may pass through safely. The other must offer their voice."
Shanks raised an eyebrow. "You mean sing?"
Ankit gripped his blade. "No. She means something deeper."
The woman raised her flute. "Choose. Or be chosen."
A sudden pull dragged the Red Blade into a swirl of mist. The sea roared up like a wall. And then—
Silence.
Ankit opened his eyes to find himself on the deck of a ruined ship.
Not theirs.
The sails were torn. The stars gone. The sky was black.
Shanks was nowhere in sight.
A presence moved behind him.
He spun, swords drawn—but what stood there wasn't alive. It was him.
Or rather, a distorted version of himself—eyes hollow, face cracked like glass, swords drawn, movements jerky.
[System Notification: Mirror Construct Detected – Combat Data Replication: 84%]
"Great," Ankit muttered. "A sparring match against myself. Classic."
[Mirror Duel – Deck of the Dying Moon]
The Mirror Ankit attacked first—faster than expected. Its blades came in low, a double slash aimed at both legs. Ankit parried the right, ducked the left, and responded with a rising diagonal slash from hip to shoulder.
His blade passed through—but the construct flickered and reformed mid-step.
"No physical core," Ankit said, adjusting his stance. "I'll need to disrupt its rhythm."
The mirror version struck again, mirroring Ankit's own technique—his Wave-Step Slide, followed by a Cross Arc Sweep.
But the footwork was slightly off.
That was the opening.
Ankit feinted a high cut, then stopped mid-swing and used his other blade to stab into the flickering knee joint. The feedback was immediate.
The construct jerked. Glitched. And screamed.
Not his voice—but his system's voice.
[Proficiency Gained: +0.7% – Adaptive Countering Technique Recognized]
He stepped back. The construct lunged wildly—but this time, Ankit pivoted sideways, rotated his hips, and brought both blades down in an X-strike at the upper back.
It collapsed into smoke.
He dropped to a knee, panting.
But the flute played again.
This time behind him.
Ankit turned. The blindfolded woman stood on the edge of the ghost ship.
"You understand what it means to fight yourself now," she said. "You are not whole."
"No one is," Ankit said.
She smiled. "You may pass."
The mist broke.
Ankit stood on the deck of the Red Blade once more. Shanks was leaning on the helm, biting a fruit.
"Took you long enough," Shanks said, eyes twinkling. "Have a good trip?"
Ankit didn't answer.
He simply walked to the bow, sat down, and unsheathed his swords.
Not to fight.
To polish.
Because next time?
He might not face a shadow.
He might face someone real.
End of Chapter 7 – A Song for the Dying Moon
Next: Chapter 8 – The Blade and the Black Rain