…
Shane's eyes flew open. His chest rose and fell; his nose still seemed full of that hot smell of rust and charcoal.
"Another cut-to-black."
He couldn't help complaining. The dream cutting off at the most crucial moment left him dangling—it was maddening.
Outside, the sky was already bright; sunlight slipped through the cheap curtains and painted long bars on the floor. It hadn't felt long in the dream, but the world was already washed in daylight.
"What's wrong?"
The voice came from beside him. Shane turned and saw Erza, fully dressed, sitting at the edge of the bed, clear eyes on him.
He rubbed his brow and sighed. "Nothing. Just a dream."
He was a little regretful—who knew when the next vision would come.
But it hadn't been a loss.
Far from it.
Up to yesterday, his Saber theories had been all over the map:
Hephaestus, God of Smith of Olympus;
Wayland the Smith, who forged Gram for Siegfried in Norse legend;
Goibniu of the Tuatha Dé Danann, the Mysterious Celtic Smith…
Any of them could easily manifest as a Heroic Spirit.
But this dream gave him a key.
The smith was using a distinctive fold-and-forge technique that left those wave-like, cloud-like patterns along the blade—the hamon.
A signature of Japanese swordsmiths.
That detail, plus the style of the forge and anvil, shrank the field in an instant.
This Spirit was unmistakably from that island.
And the great smiths of that history are few:
Amakuni, credited as ancestor of their swords, creator of the one-handed tachi "Kogarasumaru";
Mikazuki Munechika, who forged one of the Five Great Swords, with a hamon like a slender crescent moon;
And then the famed Sagami smith Okazaki Masamune, master of the "boiling steel" technique, whose blades gleamed like shifting sand, and his notorious student, Muramasa—whose viciously sharp swords became legendary "cursed blades."
Shane's thoughts raced through them.
First, he ruled out Amakuni and Munechika, both primarily active in the Heian era.
The dream-smith's technique was too practiced, too mature—carrying the calm of something hammered out over ages, not the feel of an art still forming.
Then he cut Muramasa.
"Muramasa" was more a school or a brand, referring to the line's blades, not one specific smith.
Which left the obvious answer.
"Saber's identity… is most likely Gorō Nyūdō Masamune," Shane recited mentally.
According to legend, this Sagami master reached godlike heights, but seeing his disciple's twisted nature, never passed down the final secrets of fire and water.
The disciple still pieced them together; Masamune, in rage, severed his hand. The seed of hatred was sown—and with time, fed the myth of the demon blades called Muramasa.
A man who poured his life into blades, ruthless in pursuit of perfection, who smashed anything that didn't measure up—his temperament matched the dream: forging, judging, then breaking blades without hesitation.
Add the drama and wide spread of the "Senji Muramasa" tales, and his "fame" as a Heroic Spirit was more than sufficient.
Shane was almost sure: Saber was Muramasa's master, Masamune.
He felt like he was starting to understand the Book.
"Thanks again to my past self for not zoning out in class," he muttered, hands pressed together.
"Hey. If you're awake, get up."
A mildly annoyed voice broke his train of thought.
He came back to himself to see Erza puffing her cheeks at him, eyes sharp.
She'd just noticed, apparently, that he'd somehow migrated to the other end of the bed in the night—and was now sleeping with his feet pointed at her.
"Uh, what?" Shane was still half in theory-mode.
Seeing him finally react, Erza tapped the bedframe with her scabbard—tok, tok.
"We said we'd go to the guild first thing. You have time to daydream?"
"Oh—right. Got it, got it."
He reached habitually for his empty pockets, and what remained of his sleep and Saber-guessing thrill evaporated.
Cracking Saber's name would have to wait for tonight.
His mind snapped into focus.
Money. Or rather, not enough of it.
He rolled out of bed. "Wash up and go."
They packed quickly and left the cramped room.
Morning in Magnolia was already awake; more people filled the streets, energy humming. Sunlight bounced off the bright facades—different from last evening's light altogether.
They made their way back to Fairy Tail. Before they even touched the doors, they spotted Cana chatting with a blue-haired girl holding several thick books.
The girl was petite, fine-featured, and seemed to naturally duck her head a little while talking—quiet and reserved.
"Yo! Shane, Erza!" Cana spotted them and waved. "Early birds, huh!"
She slung an arm around the blue-haired girl's shoulders and said:
"This is Levy. She wasn't here yesterday. Don't let the size fool you—she knows the library way better than I do. Any questions on text or history, she's your girl."
Levy shrank a little at the bold introduction, cheeks flushing. "I–I'm not that good…" She gave a small bow. "H-hello. I'm Levy McGarden. Pleased to meet you."
Shane, still replaying last night's dream, nodded in greeting.
Erza bowed seriously back. "Hello, Levy. I'm Erza, and this is Shane. We'll probably be bothering you a lot."
"Yeah, Levy's really smart!" Cana clapped Levy's back hard enough to make her stumble, then grinned at the two. "Showing up this early—real eager, huh, newbies?"
Shane spread his hands. "If we weren't, we'd be starving. We can barely afford the inn as it is."
At the word "lodging," Cana's face lit with understanding. "If you've nowhere to go, the church takes people in. I stay there too. It's nothing fancy, but Father Brock is kind and always welcomes kids without a place."
"Thanks, Cana," Shane said, smiling as he declined. "But we want to try on our own first." He thumbed toward the big request board inside. "As our 'senpai'… think you could point us at some newbie-friendly jobs?"
~~~
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