The quiet of the morning hung gently over the Tokyo branch. The courtyard, still etched with the marks of Sahiru's demonstration, bore silent witness to the turning of fate.
In Kenta's quarters, the old commander sat across from the boy, a sheathed blade resting on the table between them.
"You've done something no one here has," Kenta said softly. "You've brought something lost back to the world. A style born from your soul."
He slid the blade forward.
"A nichirin sword—black forged. It's not much, but it's yours to wield. From this moment on, I name you Commander-class… highest among us."
Sahiru stared at the blade for a long time.
And then, he shook his head.
"I'm honored, Lord Kenta. But I cannot take this sword."
Kenta blinked. "Why not?"
Sahiru's violet eyes gleamed in the sunlight.
"This sword wasn't born with me… I need to forge one that belongs to my path."
Days later, near the banks of a rushing river just outside Tokyo, Sahiru knelt over glowing coals and a small portable forge he had crafted himself. Sparks lit the air as he hammered and shaped the metal with patience and pain, each strike echoing like a heartbeat.
He didn't know who taught him this… only that his body moved with certainty.
Clang… Clang…
Ash floated in the wind.
Finally, after hours—maybe days—he withdrew a completed blade.
It was pitch-black, the metal as dark as obsidian—but beneath the surface, a golden shimmer pulsed like a sleeping sun. It wasn't a single color.
When he gripped the hilt, the blade responded.
Scarlet… in the heat of anger.
Violet… in the stillness of grief.
A mirror of his soul.
As he admired the blade, the world seemed to fade—until the voice returned.
"You've made it," it said. "The blade that speaks for you. Not forged from steel, but from what lies behind your smile."
Sahiru closed his eyes.
"The facade breathes now. So will you."
He stood, blade resting against his shoulder, its edge gleaming under the rising sun.