The morning was soft and golden, sunlight spilling over the sleepy village like warm honey. Birds with sapphire feathers chirped atop tall wooden fences, and the crisp air smelled faintly of morning dew and baked cinnamon bread. Elijah walked down the cobbled path with a relaxed stride, his black long coat fluttering slightly with every step.
"Good morning, Elijah!" a cheerful baker called, waving a flour-covered hand from his stall.
"Elijah, stop by the tavern for stew later, alright?"
"You've grown strong, lad! Like a real knight!"
The villagers greeted him with warmth and familiarity. Over the past year, Elijah had become more than a newcomer—he was one of them. A part of this peaceful corner of the world.
He gave them all a soft smile. "I'll visit after the market, I promise."
As he passed, the soft chatter of daily life surrounded him. Children ran about with wooden swords, imitating knights, and shopkeepers displayed their goods under colorful awnings. The village bustled quietly, safely—like a bubble untouched by war or darkness.
Finally, he reached a tucked-away shop nestled beside a glassblower's boutique and an herbologist's stall. Its faded wooden sign creaked in the wind, engraved with curling letters:
"Hevon's Arms & Enchantments."
He paused for a moment, his hand on the door handle, before stepping inside.
A soft chime rang as the door opened.
The air was heavy with the scent of oil, polished steel. Inside, the shop looked far larger than it did from the outside, with towering shelves, weapon racks, and floating orbs illuminating ancient tomes and relics. Blades of every shape and make glimmered with faint enchantments—some humming softly, others completely silent, as if waiting for the right wielder.
Behind the counter stood a tall man with wild silver hair, one red eye gleaming under a monocle, and a hammer slung across his back.
"You're Elijah, aren't you?" he said with a deep, amused voice. "I've been waiting."
Elijah bowed his head slightly. "Alaric sent me."
Hevon grinned. "That old fox. Said you'd come when the time was right. He left specific instructions: Let the boy choose what calls to him. Do not interfere. He will know."
Elijah nodded and began browsing. Axes with elemental runes, spears crafted from obsidian, short swords that shimmered like water—each one beautiful, deadly, enchanted. But none stirred anything inside him.
Nothing felt like it belonged to him.
Just as he reached the end of the room, about to turn back, he noticed a strange door. It was unlike the others—tall, sealed, and pulsing faintly red. The edges looked as if space itself bent slightly around it, warping the air.
"What's that?" Elijah asked, pointing.
Hevon's face turned serious. "Ah… The Chamber of Dyaus Migurith."
Elijah tilted his head. "The place where soul weapons are born... forged from desire and will."
Hevon raised an eyebrow, impressed. "Not many know that. You've done your reading."
He motioned toward the door. "That chamber only reacts to those who are ready. If it opened for you, it means something has awakened within."
Elijah approached the red door. As he reached out, it silently slid open with a hiss.
The chamber inside was nothing like the rest of the shop.
The air was thick—almost liquid—with magic. Shadows draped the walls like curtains. A single tube stood in the center, filled with glowing red water, casting eerie light across the black stone floor. Faint whispers seemed to echo from nowhere, murmuring in a language long forgotten.
Elijah stepped inside, cautious yet drawn forward by an invisible thread. He approached the tube, heart pounding.
Hevon's voice echoed from behind, "Place your hand on it. Let it see your soul."
He did.
The moment his palm met the cold glass, a rush of energy burst through him. Symbols danced across the surface—ancient, living, reacting to his presence. The water inside roiled violently before beginning to glow, forming shapes and lines, a weapon being forged before his eyes.
A katana—long, slender, with a single-edge blade that shimmered like glass yet radiated an edge sharper than reality itself. The guard was simple, round and blackened, inscribed with faint silver etchings that looked almost like celestial constellations. The handle was wrapped in deep midnight-blue cloth, tightly bound in a traditional diamond pattern, with a small tassel hanging from the end.
The scabbard was dark lacquered black, polished like a mirror, with a single glowing crimson line etched down the center. The blade's beauty was cold, distant—divine. It was minimalistic yet deadly, designed not for ceremony, but for a swordsman who severed fate itself.
The sword floated gently down into Elijah's hands.
He held it in awe. It was… alive. As if it breathed with him. The weight was not heavy, but solemn. The connection was instant, as though this sword had waited for him since before he was born.
"That," Hevon said quietly from the doorway, "is Musagi. A soul weapon, born from your desire and will."
Elijah stared at it, awestruck. "It's beautiful."
"It's more than that," Hevon continued. "It's a blade of legends—capable of cutting space itself. They call its gift Dimensional Cutting. Let me explain its two primary abilities."
He held up two fingers.
1. Blade of Tears – A technique where slashes pierce through space, allowing you to cut enemies from afar, striking faster than the eye can follow. Reality itself bends to your will.
2. Teleportation – You can move instantly, vanishing from one spot and reappearing anywhere you can visualize. An ability that bends space to your need.
"But," he warned, "such gifts come with cost. Your current body—your level of strength—cannot bear the burden of Musagi's full power yet. To wield it without training would tear you apart from within."
Elijah lifted the blade slowly, feeling its silent hum. He muttered, "It's slightly… heavy."
Hevon blinked, then broke into a laugh. "Heh. That's the first thing you noticed? Good. That means you're connected. Most don't feel that until much later."
He studied Elijah, then lowered his voice.
"One last thing," Hevon said, solemnly. "This blade is not for casual display. Draw it only when necessary. Musagi… chooses blood wisely."
Elijah nodded, strapping the katana to his back. "Understood."
As he turned to leave, Hevon spoke again—this time barely above a whisper.
"A soul weapon like that… the Serpent Clan will sense it. I only pray they don't notice too soon."
Elijah paused at the door. His hand tightened on the hilt. Something in the air had shifted—his path no longer just about training or discovery.
It was about destiny.