(Ring 4 — After the Argument)
Rin moved through the crowd like a shadow that forgot how to stop.
The noise of the marketplace faded into a dull, distant roar — vendors shouting, sparks flying off anvils, the scent of oil and iron bleeding into the air. He wasn't thinking. He was just walking. Fast.
Anger pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat — not at Aria, not really, but at how easily words could dig up graves he'd already buried.
He turned down a narrow side street where the noise thinned. Signs swung overhead: smithies, armorers, scrap traders. One caught his eye — a black steel placard shaped like a broken sword.
Onikaze Forge.
The name struck a chord somewhere between memory and irony.
Inside, heat rolled off the walls. The floor shimmered with light from molten sigil-lines feeding the forges. A woman behind the counter — shaved head, scars on her forearms — looked up as Rin entered. Her eyes were steady, like she'd seen every kind of fighter before.
"Trial ?" she asked.
Rin nodded once. "Trial by Mercy."
Her tone shifted — a little more respect, a bit of weight. "Then you want a weapon that listens."
She motioned him over to a rack of swords. Long blades, short ones, curved edges with faint blue veins of Dragmascus alloy. Each whispered faint resonance when his aura brushed close.
But one — black as ink, folded so tight it shimmered with a violet undertone — stayed silent.
The tag beneath it read: 夜鬼 (Yoru Oni) — Night Demon. Forged under the eclipse flame.
Rin reached for it. The moment his hand touched the hilt, the air cooled. The hum of other blades faded until only one remained.
He drew it halfway. The metal drank light instead of reflecting it.
Weight perfect. Edge absolute. It didn't hum or glow — it breathed.
The smith crossed her arms. "That one doesn't sing for everyone."
"It doesn't have to," Rin said quietly.
She smiled — just barely. "Then it's yours. Ten thousand tola."
He paid without counting. "Don't wrap it."
"Good," she said, watching him sheath it. "Some blades hate bags."
(Ring 5 — Nightweave Row)
By the time Rin left the forge, the air had cooled and the streets had shifted. The glow of Ring 4's forges gave way to the shimmer of Ring 5 — Nightweave Row, where lanterns burned soft blue and every shopfront pulsed with faint aura script. Sewists, coat-makers, and cloth workers labored in near silence, their needles moving like prayers.
He wasn't angry anymore. Just... empty inside. The way he got when the noise stopped.
The bell above a quiet shop chimed once as he entered. The sign outside read Hollow Thread Atelier, hand-painted in silver.
Inside, everything was muted: dark glass counters, spools of aura-thread, folded stacks of Seekerwear still faintly warm from the looms. Behind the counter, an older tailor glanced up — tall, dark-skinned, and steady-eyed, her hands glowing faintly where she sewed.
"Trial work?" she asked, voice low.
Rin nodded. "I need something that moves quietly. Breathes. Nothing flashy."
She set her work aside and stood, measuring him with a glance. "Silent weave, obsidian-thread base, sealed seams. You're a fighter who doesn't want to be seen until it's too late."
"That's the idea."
She moved through the racks, pulling pieces one by one — an undershirt, a reinforced jacket, loose pants, belts, gloves, and boots, all black. No shine, no crest. The fabric drank light like his new sword. She handed him the set. "Try it."
Minutes later, he stepped out of the fitting room. The mirror didn't recognize him — tall, lean, wrapped in shadow. The outfit clung where it should, and moved where it needed to. The mask framed his eyes like a threat. The new blade on his hip sealed the look.
"Fits," she said.
"Perfectly."
He left the shop lighter, though not in a mood. Outside, Nightweave buzzed alive. Seekers darted between stalls, vendors pitched gear for half price, and aura trams whispered on overhead rails. Somewhere above, a glass bridge lit with sigils pulsed like a heartbeat.
Rin leaned against a lamppost, exhaling. Steam coiled from a nearby tea stall, carrying the faint scent of mint and spice. He ordered a cup out of habit — not because he wanted tea, but because it gave his hands something to hold.
He stood there for a long time, watching the city come to life and people go about their daily lives.
The Trial was two days away. He didn't know if he was ready, but readiness never saved anyone. He thought of Aria, her voice chasing him through the market, and felt that familiar ache — the kind that made him want to vanish into silence until the noise inside him matched the world outside.
He looked down at his reflection in the cup — mask, eyes, city lights behind him.
"Night Demon," he murmured, testing the name on his tongue.
The steel at his hip felt heavier. Like it agreed.
He finished the tea, tossed the cup, and disappeared into the crowd.