Chapter 3: The Sword of Destiny
Time in the lower universe moved like a cold, relentless river, carrying Akira forward with currents he could not resist. Days blurred into nights, and nights into endless voids, yet he pressed onward, sharpening his body and mind under the tutelage of his master. Every lesson, every trial, shaped him, forging patience, resilience, and an understanding that strength alone was never enough—wisdom must temper it.
Yet, even amidst this discipline, fate had a new design for him, one that would twist the trajectory of his life in ways he could scarcely foresee. The universe had a way of testing those who dared to rise above it, and Akira would soon learn its cruel poetry.
It happened on a day when the sun barely touched the barren plains of a forsaken realm, the winds carrying the scent of dust and decay. Akira wandered through the endless desolation, senses alert, when something beneath the sands caught his eye. Buried in the grains of time itself lay a sword, its blade radiant with a light that seemed alive—pulsing, whispering, calling to him with a voice older than the cosmos.
Drawn by forces he could neither name nor resist, Akira knelt and gripped the weapon. Power surged through his veins, crackling like lightning across every nerve. And then he heard it—a whisper, faint but undeniable, promising unmatched might to the one bold enough to wield the blade. His heart thundered in his chest, fear and exhilaration mingling as he accepted it.
The Blood-Eating Sword, as it was later known, was no mere weapon. Its hunger was insatiable, its strength unparalleled, demanding not just skill but a will unbroken by doubt or hesitation. Holding it, Akira felt both burdened and liberated, as if destiny itself had placed a weight in his hands, one that would shape every choice he would make henceforth.
As days turned into months, Akira's presence transformed. No longer a nameless figure in the shadows, he became a beacon for the oppressed, a force feared by tyrants, a symbol that whispered of change. Yet the sword was a constant reminder: power was a responsibility, and every strike, every conquest, carried consequences he could not ignore. Youthful naivety had given way to a steely resolve, tempered in adversity and sharpened by necessity.
With each challenge he faced, Akira's mind and heart grew alongside his strength. The sword was not just a tool of destruction but a mirror, reflecting the burdens, choices, and values that would define him. He began to see that greatness was not a destination, but the sum of every trial endured, every victory earned, and every lesson learned in the crucible of life.
Standing atop a desolate cliff, the Blood-Eating Sword at his side and the endless horizon before him, Akira understood a truth that the lower universe had been whispering all along: destiny was not given—it was seized. And he was ready. Not merely as a man, but as a force that the cosmos itself would remember.