To this, Juno was ecstatic.
His fingers trembled ever so slightly as they closed around the hilt of the katana—his katana. The weight of it was perfect, balanced not just physically but spiritually, as if it were molded from the architecture of his own soul. It didn't resist him. It accepted him.
He couldn't stop staring at it. The edge gleamed like a line of cut obsidian, silent and deadly. Its surface, black with a hint of violet sheen, reflected no light—only a distortion, like the blur of heat rising off the pavement. Even its stillness was menacing. Juno could feel it: this was not a sword you carried. This was a sword that chose to rest.
Warden's voice broke through the moment, dry as ever.
"Well? You want the sheath or not?"
Juno whipped around, eyes lighting up with childlike greed. "Yes! Where is it?!"
The old blacksmith grunted, rolling his shoulders as he reached behind a crate. "Could say please, brat," he muttered—but there was no real venom in it. Just age. Just habit.
He pulled from the shadows a long scabbard, plain and utterly unadorned—black like a starless void. No ornament. No trim. It didn't shine. It didn't need to. The sheath drank in light. It looked less like an object and more like the absence of one. Like a memory sealed in darkness.
Juno reached for it like it was a sacred relic.
To him, it was.
He attached the sheath to his waist in one swift motion, the katana sliding into place with a soft kiss of steel on leather. The sound alone made something in his chest burn with pride.
With this weapon, he wouldn't need to burn through his stamina in long fights. He wouldn't need to exhaust himself weaving intricate traps or using complex movement to create openings. This blade wasn't just efficient—it was an extension of his own nature.
His shadows already drained his enemies, sapping their strength subtly and continuously—what Mena once called a "passive devourer." But this katana? This was a finisher. This was his statement.
Juno grinned wide.
"I want to try it out—now."
But before he could move, Warden raised a finger.
"Wait."
Juno turned, annoyed. "What?"
"There's something I need to say first."
The forge hissed. Embers drifted lazily into the dark rafters. Juno stood there, impatient, but something in Warden's tone made him pause.
"That katana," the old man said, "isn't just steel and shade. It was forged from your Essence. From your ideals. That means it doesn't follow my rules."
Warden stepped closer, arms crossed over his massive chest.
"It follows yours."
Juno tilted his head. "And?"
Warden chuckled. "And that means it's alive. Not with a will of its own—but with a mirror of yours. The stronger the enemy, the sharper the blade. It thrives in conflict. In challenge. Your katana will cut like sin through a worthy opponent."
Juno's eyes glittered. "Good."
"But," Warden said, raising a brow, "if you draw it on the weak… it will become useless. Dull as a stick. No power, no weight. A glorified twig."
Juno blinked—then laughed.
Arrogant. Loud. Cruel.
"The weak?" he said, scoffing. "I don't waste time on insects. I only fight monsters."
He tapped the hilt of the sword. "This thing'll never need to dull."
Warden didn't laugh with him.
Instead, he studied the boy in silence. Then muttered, almost to himself, "…You think that's strength."
Juno narrowed his eyes. "What's that supposed to mean?"
The old man shrugged. "You say the weak are nothing. But you forget—it's the strong who protect them. That's real strength. Not this… edge you walk."
"Oh shut up," Juno said, waving him off like smoke. "I'm not a knight. I don't care about the weak. If they die, they die."
Warden said nothing at first. Then chuckled. Not cruelly. Not mockingly. But as if he knew a truth that hadn't yet touched Juno's bones.
"You'll learn."
Silence stretched between them. The fire hissed behind the forge. Shadows shifted slightly on the stone floor.
Then Warden cleared his throat.
"Now, payment."
Juno froze. "Payment?"
Warden grinned. "You thought I made that masterpiece for free? What, you think you're special?"
Juno scratched the back of his head. "Uhh… I mean…"
"Idiot," Warden muttered.
Juno laughed nervously, lowering his head a little. "Yeah, alright. I forgot."
Warden stepped forward. "I don't need coin. I don't need favors. What I want… is twenty percent of your Essence."
That made Juno straighten instantly.
"Twenty percent?!"
Warden was serious.
"I've worked with hundreds of Essences. Yours is rare. It carries ambition like wildfire and contempt like poison. I could forge ten weapons from it and still not exhaust its potential. That katana barely scratched the surface."
Juno hesitated. His smile faded. He wasn't an idiot—he understood what that meant.
Warden wanted his Essence not for sentimental reasons, but for crafting. For power. For profit.
And yet…
Juno said nothing. He just nodded.
"Take it."
The forge trembled slightly as Warden raised his hands. A slow pulse of runes glowed beneath their feet, and black smoke uncoiled from Juno's chest—his Essence made manifest. Cold, sharp, like knives dancing on invisible strings.
Warden inhaled the vapor, storing it inside a black gem socketed into his anvil.
The moment it ended, Juno stumbled back a step. His breath hitched. His knees almost buckled.
"You'll be fine in a few minutes," Warden said. "Siphoning that much doesn't hurt. But your soul'll feel lighter. You'll feel… a little exposed."
Juno nodded, jaw tight. "Tch… whatever."
He caught his breath. Recentered.
Then looked up.
"Thanks, old man."
Warden raised a brow. "For what?"
"For teaching me Essence," Juno said. "And for this."
He tapped the hilt of his katana again. "It's the first thing I've ever owned that feels like me."
Warden didn't smile. But his gaze softened.
"You're welcome."
With that, Juno turned on his heel and strode toward the great door.
His boots echoed across the stone. The sword hung at his side like a promise.
He didn't even look back.
And as the door creaked shut behind him, Warden looked down at the gem in his hand—the one now swirling with a fraction of Juno's Essence.
And muttered to himself:
"Now let's see what kind of storm you'll become."
…
….
…..
Niko woke slowly. The light that poured in through the window was gentle, golden—but wrong.
He blinked, turned his head lazily toward the open curtains. The sun hung in nearly the same place it had when he collapsed into bed.
"…Still morning?" he murmured, voice dry.
But his body felt different. Not heavy, not broken. His limbs moved fluidly, his skin no longer ached, and even the lingering pain in his left leg had dulled to a whisper. Energy flowed through him—not like a rush, but a deep and steady current, like water circulating from a well. His core thrummed softly, pulsing with warmth. For a brief moment, it almost felt like his heartbeat had shifted lower in his body, like something else had taken the job of sustaining him.
He sat up, brows furrowing. Then it hit him.
Wait.
He stood, rushed to the window, and looked at the angle of the shadows.
"No way—did I sleep an entire day?" He ran a hand through his tangled hair, panic mixing with disbelief. "I was only awake for a day and a half after the fight…"
His mind reeled back—past the guards, past the cult, past the darkness. Chalice. That brutal fight, the conversation afterward, the bleeding sunrise when they surfaced. He remembered the feeling of his body teetering on the edge of collapse. And still, he'd moved again. Traveled through space using Essence. Found Yuki. Walked through the inn.
Of course he needed rest.
Niko sighed, groaning at himself. "Guess I did need the sleep…"
But another realization crept in.
The war Chalice spoke of—the meeting at the Dark Tower—was no longer distant. It was now a day away.
He looked down at his body. His energy had been restored, almost overfilled. His soul felt tuned in a way it never had before, like some part of it had been rebuilt while he slept.
Still… he smelled like battle, sweat, and forest.
"Shower. Definitely."
He found the bath hall on the second floor, steam curling out from the walls, the scent of lavender soap clinging to the air. It was a humble space—stone floor, wooden slats, a simple mirror. He washed slowly, letting the hot water run over his shoulders, pressing his fingers to the bruises that had already started fading. By the time he emerged and toweled off, Niko felt… alive.
He slipped into fresh clothes, tugged his collar straight, and started back toward his room.
That's when he saw her.
Mena.
The violet-haired girl who never left Juno's side. The one who had shielded him during his fight with Iri, when things nearly turned fatal. Her steps were soft as ever, her blindfold pristine, her presence oddly peaceful for someone who served a storm like Juno. She moved like a whisper given form.
Niko slowed as she approached. Her head turned slightly as if sensing him. She tilted forward in a respectful bow—elegant, practiced.
He did the same.
He didn't know if she could see it, but it felt necessary. A quiet moment passed. No words exchanged. Then they moved past one another, and that was that.
He kept walking.
No hostility. No suspicion. Just two paths briefly crossing.
Niko's thoughts quickly returned to Iri.
He hadn't seen her since they arrived at the inn. She hadn't been in her room yesterday. And today… still missing.
"Where the hell did you go?" he muttered.
It wasn't like her to be gone so long. Especially not now. Not when everything Chalice had said still echoed in his head—'Meet me at the Dark Tower in three days. When our war begins.'
Niko's hand curled at his side.
One day left.
He needed to find Iri.
Needed to speak to her.
Because war was coming, whether they were ready or not.