Chapter 13: The Ghost of the Blade

The Legacy of the Crimson Blade

I awoke to a deafening silence.

The cold, unyielding stone pressed against my back, my body aching with exhaustion. My breaths were slow, ragged, and every muscle screamed in protest as I shifted against the cavern wall. Yet, despite the lingering pain, a comforting weight rested in my grasp.

The red katana.

Its deep crimson sheen pulsed faintly, as though a heartbeat echoed within the steel itself. I traced my fingers along the hilt, feeling the etchings of timeworn runes carved into the metal—runes that carried a legacy far greater than I could fathom. Legends whispered that weapons like these were not simply forged; they were born—tempered in battle, refined through sacrifice, and imbued with the will of their masters.

Even now, I could feel its presence. A lingering energy. A soul.

My mind was clouded with fatigue, but curiosity gnawed at me. With a deep breath, I activated Eclipse Vision.

The moment my ability flared to life, the dim cave light seemed to shift—warping, bending. Shadows danced along the jagged walls, twisting into something more defined, more real.

Then, I saw him.

A figure emerged from the darkness, his form woven from flickering strands of ethereal light. His presence was undeniable—commanding yet serene. His flowing garments bore the marks of an ancient era, and though his face was partially obscured, his eyes pierced through me—cold, unwavering, filled with an unfathomable depth of wisdom.

My breath hitched.

"Who… who are you?" I rasped, barely managing the words.

The apparition regarded me in silence before raising his hand in a deliberate, practiced motion—a swordsman's salute.

Then, without a word, he moved.

His blade whispered through the air, cutting through the darkness like a streak of crimson moonlight. Each motion was a dance of effortless precision, his stance perfectly balanced, his technique refined beyond human limits. The slashes painted seamless arcs—strikes so fast they left afterimages that shimmered before fading into nothingness.

I could only stare.

This was no ordinary swordplay. This was art. A technique beyond my comprehension—fluid yet deadly, a blend of raw power and masterful control.

And then it struck me.

This wasn't just any swordsman.

I was looking at the very master of the red katana.

A Lost Art Unveiled

As he moved, something stirred within me—an unrelenting desire to learn.

I sharpened my focus, eyes locked onto his every motion. My hands tightened around my own blade, my heart pounding with anticipation.

Mimic him.

I raised my sword, mirroring his stance as best I could. Then, I moved—clumsy at first, my body resisting the unfamiliar rhythm. My blade lacked the effortless grace of his, my footing was a fraction too slow, my strikes just slightly off.

But I persisted.

Again.

Again.

Again.

The phantom continued his routine, showing no signs of acknowledging my struggle. And yet, I understood—this was the test. The trial.

Minutes passed. Then an hour. Then longer.

Sweat dripped down my temple. My breath grew heavy. My muscles ached.

But the more I practiced, the more I began to understand.

Every movement held a purpose. Every feint had intent. Every slash was part of something greater—a technique that flowed like water but struck like fire.

And then—

Something clicked.

I swung the blade in a single, decisive motion.

Crimson light bloomed.

For a split second, my blade left an afterimage—a flicker of energy that trailed in its wake.

The phantom swordsman paused.

I barely had time to react before a translucent window materialized before me.

---

[New Weapon Art Acquired!]

Crimson Moon Strike (Advanced Weapon Art - Katana) [★★★★★]

Proficiency: 1.2% (Beginner Level).

[First Form Unlocked]

[Other Forms - Locked]

---

I exhaled sharply.

A rush of exhilaration surged through me, followed by a deep sense of realization.

This wasn't just some minor skill—this was a legendary technique.

A weapon art so advanced that even the protagonist of this world would struggle to master it. And yet, I, a supposed extra, had gained the first step.

I wasn't meant to have this power.

And yet, here I stood—stealing pieces of destiny that were never meant to be mine.

A Name Written in History

As the spectral swordsman slowly faded into the darkness, I allowed myself a moment to breathe, to process what had just happened.

I gazed down at the red katana, its blade humming faintly in my grasp. This weapon wasn't merely a prize for slaying a beast.

It was a legacy.

I knew the name now—Kurenai Shiro.

The Swordmaster of the Crimson Dawn.

A figure whispered about in ancient texts, revered for his unmatched skill and unyielding resolve. He had fought in the Great Mana Wars, bridging the divide between warring factions. His blade had carved peace into a world drowning in blood.

And now, that very blade was in my hands.

In the grand narrative of this world, the hero would one day wield weapons forged by celestial forges, blades that could cut through the very fabric of reality.

But every legend has a beginning.

And this—this katana, this technique, this moment—was my beginning.

I wasn't the protagonist. I was never meant to rise above the shadows.

But if fate refused to acknowledge me—

Then I would carve my own legend.

The Blade of a New Era

I stepped into the open space near the cave's entrance, where the faint glow of dawn peeked over the jagged cliffs. The cool morning air was sharp against my skin, carrying the scent of damp earth and stone.

I lifted my blade, letting it catch the morning light.

One more time.

I took my stance, inhaled deeply—

And executed Crimson Moon Strike.

My blade flashed forward, a sweeping arc of burning red. The air hummed with energy as afterimages lingered in its wake, flickering like echoes of the past.

A system notification flickered before me.

---

[Weapon Art Proficiency Increased!]

Crimson Moon Strike - First Form: 1.2% → 2.3%

---

A grin tugged at the corners of my lips.

"Not bad," I muttered.

A fraction of progress.

But when you start from nothing, even a 1% increase is more than just a number.

It's proof that you're moving forward.

And I would keep moving.

Because this world may have cast me aside—

But I would make sure it never forgot my name.