It was a burning wasteland.
Crimson flames and thick smoke shrouded heaven and earth. The smoke was like a curtain; distant mountains loomed faintly in the sea of fire, while wild grass in the foreground was devoured by the blaze, sparks flying everywhere.
Shane stood in the center of the sea of fire. Scorching heat waves hit his face, yet strangely, he felt no pain.
Only a heavy, ubiquitous "presence" pressed against his skin.
He looked around. As far as his eyes could see, besides the flames, there were countless broken swords planted all over the earth.
Like tombstones, densely packed, carrying an inexplicable sorrow, stretching to the end of his vision.
At this moment—
Clang!
A clear and melodious sound of an iron hammer striking penetrated the flames and smoke, striking directly on Shane's soul.
As if hearing an instinctive summons, he was unconsciously attracted by this sound and walked forward.
The scorched earth was scalding, and broken blades stumbled his steps.
On the way, the scattered sword mounds gradually became dense, and the quality of the "vessels" constantly rose with a resolution visible to the naked eye.
From the initial rough iron pieces to the later sharp blades of various shapes shining with cold light... they pointed in the same direction like a pilgrimage.
Finally, in the center where the flames were most intense, he saw that figure.
Shane's heart shook.
It was the swordsmith he had seen in the illusion, but at this time, he was no longer the mountain-like man in his prime. At this moment, he was hunched, thin, and his head full of white hair danced wildly in the hot wind.
Years and flames had dried up his essence. His skin was full of marks from fire and deep wrinkles. Only those eyes were still bright, burning with a light more intense than the surrounding flames.
The swordsmith's gaze was locked tightly on the embryonic form of the blade in his hand, which had been hammered to emit a dark red glow.
The raging fire around that seemed to want to burn the world down seemed to permeate from this hunched body.
Shane held his breath. He had studied forging for a month and considered his skills decent.
But at this moment, he couldn't understand the old swordsmith's seemingly slow and simple movements at all.
Every lift of the hammer, fall, and flip contained an indescribably exquisite rhythm.
As if it wasn't forging a sword, but endowing a piece of cold iron with life.
Shane sank deeply into it, forgetting himself, allowing the blazing fire drawn from the old swordsmith to completely swallow him.
As if he had also become a part of this calcination.
Unknown how much time passed.
The outline of the blade gradually reached perfection in the thousands of temperings. The lines were smooth as if naturally formed, and cold light loomed under the crimson base.
At this time, the old swordsmith suddenly looked up toward Shane's direction, but there was no focus in his eyes, as if looking at an empty void.
He opened his mouth slowly, using a hoarse but incredibly clear voice:
"People will age,"
Thump! A hammer fell, sparks like blood splashing on his deeply furrowed face.
"No matter how strong the body, it will decay. The soul will also unable to withstand the passage of time, rotting, mutating, and stinking,"
Thump! Another hammer, the iron billet shone brighter, flickering like breathing.
"No matter what, evil will continuously regenerate like weeds, crop after crop, rising from the ground."
He lifted his foot and stepped heavily on the invisible bellows.
Whoosh—!
Flames rose abruptly, completely wrapping him and the sword.
"What to do? Swing the hammer. With every strike, forge the belief of saving the common people into the iron bones."
Hammer up, hammer down, the rhythm unchanged, firm as ever.
"What to do? Step on the bellows. With every gust of wind, blow the thoughts of when one was redeemed into the furnace."
Wind and fire whistled, reflecting his calm and fervent eyes, which reflected the burning blade.
"What to do? Oil quench with bare hands. With every sound of quenching, quench one's life achievements into the blade."
He actually grabbed the incandescent blade with his bare hands and plunged it fiercely into a jar of turbid oil that appeared beside him at some point.
Sizzle!
Blue smoke exploded, seemingly his life's last roar.
"This body... is formed for forging swords."
His voice trembled, his body gradually becoming transparent in the fire.
"Even if my body vanishes like smoke, my name unknown to anyone, the thousands I forged all return to dust."
With this prophecy-like whisper, he raised the last hammer, used up his remaining life, and smashed it down heavily—
CLANG—!!!
This sound was no longer the clash of metal and iron, but like a great bell, resounding through the entire burning wasteland, even making the flames stagnate, the wasteland falling silent.
From the flame that had reached perfection, the old swordsmith slowly pulled out that sword.
On the entire wasteland, with his movement, all swords shattered at the sound, turning into crystal dust. All existences named "Sword" seemed to merge into this one blade.
The blade was as clean as autumn water, shiny enough to reflect people. The hamon was like continuous mountain ranges, and also like surging flames.
The cold blade light formed a strange and harmonious opposition with the surrounding heat.
"This sword, only this one blade..." He stared at the work in his hands, like staring at the meaning of his entire life, "Is forged only for the common people."
"My name is Senji Muramasa..."
"This sword shall be—Tsumukari Muramasa!"
The moment the voice fell, his decrepit body, starting from his fingertips, bit by bit, turned into scattered sparks, assimilated and swallowed by the surrounding raging flames. He didn't struggle, had no regrets, only the peace after completing his mission.
Finally, he completely disappeared into the flames, as if he never existed.
The flames on the wasteland began to recede slowly like a tide.
And where he last stood, only a Tachi remained, standing silently in the scorched earth.
Shane gazed at this "Sword of a Lifetime" forged by the craftsman with his life. The blade reflected the dying residual fire, and also his complicated and unspeakable face.
The swordsmith's sorrow and spirit of forging swords for the world pressed heavily on his heart, making him almost breathless.
"But why... is it him?"
Shane lowered his head, silent among the embers for a long time. Besides being infected by that emotion, he was also full of doubts.
The illusion happening before his eyes was simply more world-view-shattering than knowing there was Christmas in the other world.
"How could it be him? How could it be him? How could it be him?"
Shane bit his thumb hard, puzzled.
Unknown how many times he repeated it.
Finally, he took a deep breath of the scorching air, stepped forward, reached out, and held the hilt that was still hot as fire.
Immediately after, he whispered that name:
"Muramasa, Senji Muramasa!"
The voice rippled on the wasteland, seemingly touching something.
The last leaping residual flames on the earth extinguished at the sound. Shane was blessed with a sudden flash of insight, unconsciously waving the sword in his hand, slashing forward—
In an instant, everything in his vision—the wasteland, embers, sky—was covered with cracks like a huge mirror surface, then shattered with a crash!
A strong dizziness hit him. Shane opened his eyes abruptly, his heart beating violently in his chest.
"Shane! You finally woke up!?"
What came into view was swaying scarlet hair, and Erza's face written with anxiety.
She seemed to have been guarding by the bed all along, her pitch-black pupils full of unconcealable worry.
Shane's eyes were somewhat unfocused and blank. The flames burning everything and the dissipating figure of the old swordsmith in the dream were still incredibly clear, overlapping with the reality before his eyes.
He was in a trance for a moment before adapting to the soft light in the room.
Shane raised his hand, gently stroking Erza's soft hair, and comforted in a low voice, "What's wrong? I'm fine."