April 21st, 2012, with Kiba, Morning.
The morning sun cast long shadows across the vast, level grassy field behind the Gremory manor, a space that seemed more suited for serene picnics than intense combat training.
The air was still cool, carrying the fresh scent of dew-damp grass and the distant, earthy aroma from the forests surrounding Lake Kawaguchi. In the center of this tranquil setting, Makoto Yuki and Yuuto Kiba stood facing each other, the atmosphere between them shifting from polite formality to focused intent.
"I'm in your care, Senpai," Kiba said, offering a respectful bow, his blonde hair catching the morning light. His posture was that of a perfect knight, disciplined and poised.
Makoto returned the nod. "Before we start, Rias told me you have a Sacred Gear. What does it do?" he asked, his voice calm and direct.
A hint of pride, mixed with solemnity, flickered in Kiba's grey eyes. "It's called Sword Birth. It allows me to create demonic swords of many types at will," he explained.
To demonstrate, he extended his hand. In a shimmer of dark, demonic energy, a perfectly balanced katana materialized in his grip. Though elegant, the blade thrummed with a faint, sinister power.
'A fascinating ability. It is not unlike the conceptual weapon creation you can achieve through the power of the Universe,' Yoshitsune's voice observed from within Makoto's mind, analytical and intrigued.
'Test his abilities, Universe. From tomorrow, I will be the one sparring with him, and I require a clear picture of his capabilities.' The samurai's tone then sharpened. 'And do not go easy on him. If you hold back, I will be unable to discern how to properly forge him into a better warrior.'
"Can you make a sword for me?" Makoto requested.
"Of course," Kiba agreed without hesitation. With another flick of his wrist, a shorter, sturdy blade—a wakizashi—appeared in the air. He caught it by the hilt and tossed it expertly to Makoto, who snatched it from the air, testing its weight.
"Now," Makoto instructed, settling into a neutral stance. "Attack me."
Kiba nodded, his expression hardening. "I'm coming, Senpai."
The blonde knight exploded into motion. He held his katana with the blade pointed backward, close to his body, using its streamlined form to minimize wind resistance.
His speed, enhanced by his Knight piece, was breathtaking; he closed the distance between them in the blink of an eye. His first attack was a swift, precise diagonal slash aimed at Makoto's shoulder.
Clang!
The sound of steel meeting steel rang out sharply in the quiet morning.
Makoto met the blow with the wakizashi, parrying it with an economy of movement that spoke of immense experience granted by the bomd with Yoshitsune. But Kiba didn't relent.
He flowed immediately into a relentless combination of strikes—horizontal swipes, thrusts, and low sweeps—each move executed with the fluid grace and blistering speed his Evil Piece granted him. He was a whirlwind of polished steel, pushing his enhanced abilities to their limit.
Yet, Makoto simply defended, his feet barely moving, his blocks precise and effortless. He was a rock against which Kiba's flurry of attacks broke without effect.
'Universe, I said do not go easy!' Yoshitsune admonished, his mental voice impatient. 'Imagine for a single moment that you have a Shadow in front of you. Not a boy you are mentoring. A threat.'
As if hearing the samurai's thoughts, Kiba disengaged slightly. "Repression Calm!" he shouted.
A second sword materialized in his free hand. This one was bizarre—its blade ended in a sharp, triangular point from which a pulsating black orb of energy emanated.
The orb immediately began to hum, voraciously sucking in the air around it. A visible distortion, a vacuum, formed at the tip, pulling at Makoto's clothes and threatening to disrupt his balance.
'Smart,' Yoshitsune commented, a note of approval in his tone. 'He seeks to break your stance and create an opening. He is thinking tactically.'
Instead of being pulled off-balance, Makoto acted. He didn't fight the suction; he used it to his advantage. Leaning into the pull for a split second, he brought the wakizashi down in a sharp, brutal arc, not at Kiba, but at the Repression Calm blade itself.
The impact was perfectly calculated, striking the base of the strange sword where its energy was most unstable. The weapon shattered in a burst of dissipating dark energy, the vacuum collapsing with a soft pop.
Disarmed, Kiba reacted with impressive reflexes. Even as the shards of his sword faded, he was already summoning another. "Sword Birth!"
This time, the blade erupted from the ground itself, shooting up between him and Makoto like a metallic shield. Makoto didn't hesitate. He pivoted and delivered a powerful kick to the flat of the emergent sword.
The demonic steel, designed for cutting, not withstanding brute impact, cracked and splintered under the force.
But the momentary obstruction had served its purpose. Kiba had used the fraction of a second to create distance, darting to Makoto's side. As Makoto turned his head to track him, Kiba was already in the air, having used his enhanced agility to leap high.
"Flame Delete!" Kiba called out, though the name was a misnomer. The sword that formed in his hands was not of fire, but of glittering, absolute zero ice. It radiated a chilling aura that frosted the air around it, the blade sharp enough to slice through steel.
'Enough. Now show him how it is done,' Yoshitsune commanded, his decision made. 'He is not without talent. We can work with this.'
In that suspended moment, Makoto made his move. He opened his hand, and the wakizashi Kiba had given him clattered to the grass, forgotten. Then, he raised his empty hand, and light answered.
It was not a demonic energy, nor was it the blue aura of Persona. This was pure, concentrated light, solidifying into the form of a sword.
The Deus Xiphos—the Sword of God—manifested in Makoto's grip. It was a blade of serene, brilliant white light, its crossguard elegant, its presence humming with an authority that was neither holy nor unholy, but simply absolute.
Kiba's eyes, mid-descent, locked onto the sword. His face, a moment ago a mask of focused determination, twisted. A wave of visceral disgust and raw, unadulterated hatred contorted his features.
It was a deep, instinctual revulsion that bypassed all logic, born from a past steeped in pain and torture at the hands of those who wielded such light.
But his reaction, that split-second of paralyzing horror, was all the opening that was needed. He never saw Makoto move. One instant, the blazing sword was there. The next, his own Frozen Delete sword exploded into a thousand glittering shards of ice, and a firm hand had closed on the collar of his shirt.
The world tilted. Kiba felt a powerful yank, and then his back slammed into the soft grass, the breath driven from his lungs. He laid there, stunned, looking up at the clear blue sky, the form of Makoto Yuki standing over him, the luminous sword already vanished.
The fight was over.
Makoto extended a hand down to help him up. Kiba stared at it for a moment, then pushed himself up on his own, his pride stung more than his body. He got to his feet, brushing grass from his uniform, unable to meet Makoto's eyes.
"What... what was that sword?" Kiba asked, his voice tight, the usually polite tone now a thin veneer over a seething cauldron of emotion.
"Deus Xiphos," Makoto answered plainly, his head tilting slightly in confusion at the intensity of Kiba's reaction.
"Is that a holy sword?" Kiba pressed, the words laced with a barely concealed venom, his frown deepening.
"I guess you could call it one," Makoto said, thinking back. "A woman I fought when I first arrived here called it that, now that I think about it."
Seeing the genuine, uncomprehending confusion on Makoto's face, the fog of Kiba's traumatic memory began to clear.
'What am I doing?' he thought, shame washing over him like a cold wave. 'This is Senpai Yuki. He would never wield one of those swords. He's not even from this world.'
The weapon had felt holy, but its essence was different—older, purer, devoid of the sanctimonious zeal he associated with the Holy Sword project.
"Sorry, Senpai!" Kiba shouted, executing a deep, formal bow so sharp it could have cut the air. He bit his lip hard enough to draw a faint taste of blood, punishing himself for his lapse. And I dare to call myself a knight? Jumping to conclusions so rashly?
"Why are you sorry? You did good," Makoto said, misinterpreting the apology as one for losing the spar.
"I... it's nothing. Sorry for interrupting you," Kiba shook his head, forcing his composure to return. He met Makoto's gaze again, his expression now one of renewed, fierce determination. "I'm ready for everything, Senpai. I will train harder than anyone."
Behind his eyes, a old promise flickered: with Senpai's help, I can become strong enough. Strong enough to finally avenge my friends.
'I will need to speak with Rias about this,' Makoto noted internally, filing away Kiba's extreme reaction for later. Outwardly, he simply nodded.
"I am going to see how Irumi is doing," Makoto stated. "So I will leave you to someone else."
He didn't need an evoker this time. He simply focused, and the air beside him shimmered. In a flash of blue light, the legendary samurai, Minamoto no Yoshitsune, materialized.
He stood in his full, imposing armor, his four swords sheathed at his hips, his presence an aura of disciplined lethality and ancient battlefields.
"I am Minamoto no Yoshitsune," the Persona announced, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that brooked no argument. "I will be your trainer for these seven days."
Kiba's eyes widened, his personal turmoil momentarily forgotten. His mouth fell slightly open. His own master, Souji Okita—Sirzechs's Knight—had spoken of the legendary general with reverent awe, considering him the pinnacle of martial prowess. And now his master's idol was standing before him, a spirit made manifest.
"It is an honour to meet a great warrior such as yourself, sir," Kiba said, his voice filled with genuine awe and respect, bowing once more.
Yoshitsune merely snorted, unimpressed by courtesy. "More actions and less words, blonde. Universe," he said, turning his head slightly towards Makoto, "I will deal with this boy from now on."
Makoto gave a single nod of acknowledgment and turned to leave, the crow Muninn taking flight from his shoulder to circle high above, a silent observer.
As Makoto's footsteps faded, Yoshitsune turned his full attention back to Kiba. He drew one of his four swords with a soft, metallic whisper that promised violence.
"Now, blonde," Yoshitsune said, a dangerous glint in his eyes.
"Just know that I am not as gentle or patient as the Universe." He settled into a stance that was both elegant and utterly predatory. "Show me the true limits of that Sacred Gear of yours. Do not make me ask twice."