The mountain lake was a perfect mirror, its glassy surface reflecting the towering peaks and the two figures standing on the ancient stone bridge that arched over its deepest point. The air was so still, so pristine, that it felt sacrilegious to shatter it with words, let alone violence. Kenta stood at one end of the bridge, Hikari no Ha held in a ready stance, the Blade of Light gleaming with a soft, steady radiance. At the other end, Kaguya watched him, her arms crossed, her expression one of profound, almost clinical disappointment.
"You cling to it," she stated, her voice cutting through the silence like a shard of ice. "You hold that blade of light as if it were a charm to ward off evil. Tell me, Kenta Yazuru, why do you treat its twin like a plague? Are you so terrified of the shadow you cast?"
"It is not fear," Kenta countered, his voice tight, his knuckles white on the hilt. "It is discipline. The darkness within that blade is a storm. I will not let it capsize me."
"A pretty philosophy for a monk, but a death sentence for a warrior," Kaguya sneered, a cruel smile touching her lips. "Yami, the blade's first master, did not 'control' the storm. She learned its currents, she rode its winds. She understood that to deny the shadow is to misunderstand the nature of light. By hiding from it, you are not honoring her legacy. You are proving yourself unworthy of it. You are a coward, hiding in a borrowed light."
The word 'coward' struck a nerve, as she knew it would. A flicker of raw anger, hot and defensive, crossed his normally placid features. "It is not cowardice!" he snapped, his stance shifting minutely, betraying his agitation.
Seeing the crack in his armor, Kaguya's eyes narrowed. Her plan was cruel, but its purpose was absolute. Her gaze flashed a deep, bloody crimson. An illusion bloomed from her will, a psychic phantom so vivid it felt more real than the stone beneath their feet.
It was Sarah. Not the fierce, determined warrior, but a broken doll. Her body lay limp in Kaguya's illusory grasp, her neck bent at an impossible angle, her eyes vacant and staring. The image was a masterpiece of psychological warfare, designed to target Kenta's most profound vulnerability.
"Principles are a luxury for the living," Kaguya's voice hissed, cold as a grave-draught. "If you refuse to embrace the power that could save her, then watch as I snuff out her soul. Your inaction will be her epitaph."
From behind a large boulder at the lake's edge, a stifled gasp escaped Sarah. She turned on Jokedone, her face pale with a mixture of horror and fury. "How can you stand there? How can you call that monster your companion?!" she whispered, her voice trembling.
Jokedone's emerald eyes were solemn, his usual levity gone. "Kaguya's methods are a forge," he replied, his voice low and steady. "She does not temper steel with gentle warmth, but with brutal, shocking heat. She breaks down the flawed ore to reveal the stronger metal within. You cannot master what you refuse to even look at, Sarah. And he," he nodded toward the bridge, "has been looking away for a long, long time."
On the bridge, Kenta was drowning. The world had shrunk to the horrifying image of Sarah's lifeless form. The pale, defensive anger on his face deepened, contorting, twisting into something ancient and primal. It was a rage born of absolute helplessness, a fury that the light in his hands could not fix this.
With a guttural roar that tore from the depths of his soul, he slammed Hikari no Ha back into its scabbard. His hand fell to the other, to the hilt that was rough and cold, the one that seemed to drink the light around it.
He drew Yami no Hikari.
The effect was instantaneous and cataclysmic.
A shockwave of pure, ink-black energy erupted from him, silent and suffocating. The serene surface of the lake shattered as if struck by a meteor. The leather tie holding his hair snapped, and his dark locks flew wild around his face, whipped by a wind that came from nowhere. A terrifying, palpable aura of malevolence enveloped him, darkening the very air. His eyes, once calm and focused, now glowed with the hellish crimson of fresh blood. And on his lips was a smirk—a cruel, twisted, and utterly unfamiliar expression that was nothing of the Kenta she knew.
The gentle swordsman was gone. In his place stood a vessel of pure, undiluted killing intent.
Kaguya's eyes widened a fraction, the first true crack in her composure. He's not just empowered... he's been overwritten.
They clashed. The battle was no longer a test; it was a storm. Kenta moved with a feral, predatory grace, his movements devoid of the precise forms of his usual style. He was raw, instinctual, and terrifyingly fast. His perception, sharpened by the dark blade's influence, now allowed him to match Kaguya's divine speed blow for blow. He wasn't fighting with technique; he was unleashing a frenzy.
"Have you ever seen him like this?" Jokedone asked Sarah, his voice grave.
"Never," she whispered, her hand over her mouth. Horrified fascination warred with dread in her heart. "It's... it's like he's possessed. That's not Kenta."
"That is the price of the dark blade," Jokedone explained, his gaze locked on the violent dance. "It does not grant power as a tool. It infests the user. It is a sentient hunger that feeds on conflict, growing stronger with every burst of rage, and in doing so, it fractures the wielder's spirit, piece by piece. He is not in control. He is trapped in a war for his own soul, and the blade is winning."
Frustration began to gnaw at Kaguya. This was not the controlled awakening she had intended. This was a catastrophe in the making. Her eyes flashed again, and the air around her head seemed to shimmer. "One Eye of Buddha: All-Seeing Perception."
Her consciousness expanded, her senses becoming hyper-acute, allowing her to perceive the flow of energy, the micro-shifts in muscle, the very intent behind an attack before it was launched. Yet, even with this divine advantage, the Kenta-thing adapted, its savage intuition a perfect, dark mirror to her enlightened sight. It was a stalemate forged in chaos.
Seeing a fleeting opening in Kaguya's defensive rhythm, Jokedone made a decision. He could not let this continue.
"Kenta!" he boomed, his voice imbued with a fraction of his true power, a sonic lance aimed not to harm, but to distract.
It was a single, critical moment. The possessed Kenta's head twitched, his hellish gaze flicking toward the source of the sound. It was the opening Kaguya needed. She moved like lightning, her hand striking not with destructive force, but with precise, concussive energy at a specific nerve cluster on the side of his neck.
The result was immediate. The oppressive dark aura shattered like glass. The crimson light fled from his eyes, extinguished in an instant. The cruel smirk vanished, replaced by slack-jawed unconsciousness. He crumpled to the stone of the bridge, his body his own once more, the cursed blade clattering beside him.
Sarah was at his side in a heartbeat, her own injuries forgotten. She cradled his head, her hands trembling as she checked his pulse, her face a mask of fear and relief.
Jokedone walked to the center of the bridge, stopping beside Kaguya. "Are you alright?" he asked, his voice low.
She let out a short, breathless chuckle, wiping a faint sheen of sweat from her brow with the back of her hand. "Worried about me? How quaint." Her bravado was a thin veil. Her chest rose and fell rapidly, and a fine tremor ran through her arms. The test was over. The damage, both seen and unseen, was done.
The pristine mirror of the lake was gone, replaced by churning, muddy water. The bridge was scarred with fresh cracks. And lying broken upon it was a young man who had just been forced to stare into the abyss within himself, and had watched, helpless, as it stared back.