Chapter 93 The Blade That Splits the Sky
Edited by: Kanaa-senpai
It began like any other day. If I had to name a single difference, it was quieter—eerily so—but everything else looked the same. On the surface, at least.
As the work began, I triggered Concept Appraisal, focusing hard enough to catch even the faintest shift. That’s why I noticed it—the subtle tremor in the mana drawn from the Spiritual Vein. My master matched that fluctuation perfectly, adjusting her own mana until the steel
Vein. My master matched that fluctuation perfectly, adjusting her own mana until the steel glowed red. Her eyes shifted constantly, never missing a beat as the flow changed from one breath to the next. The flames bent to her will, heat passing evenly through the steel, flawless from edge to core.
She drew the steel from the forge and struck it. Sparks burst and the steel thinned, layers merging into one as if eager to become something greater. The sight was almost too beautiful; I nearly forgot to breathe. Still, I forced myself to watch—every movement, every breath, every twitch of her wrist and tilt of her hammer—and burned it all into memory. The mana streams, the resonance between forge and hammer—everything was in perfect harmony. The steel showed no distortion at all. It was… complete. A perfect existence taking shape before my eyes.
Then, as though perfection itself needed proof, she quenched it in water and split it apart. The contradiction of it—something flawless breaking—was breathtaking. The fractured steel separated cleanly, almost as if it had chosen the exact point where it wished to part. Each piece looked ready to become a sword on its own. Then she set those pieces upon a lever bar and began forge welding, urging them to merge again, as though the steel itself understood it could still become something more.
The layers stacked higher, yet no trace of calculation showed in her order. It wasn’t logic guiding her—it was intuition. Or maybe it was the steel itself whispering the correct sequence to her. I could almost feel it. A sensitivity beyond anything I could reach yet—the sense of hearing the steel’s own voice. She worked from a realm I hadn’t touched, a world where metal spoke and gods might listen.
She pulled the welded billet from the forge and struck again. Sparks scattered. Impurities burst out with each blow, burning away. Each strike made the steel feel heavier—not in weight, but in presence. I questioned if it was an illusion, but even as I asked myself that, I wasn’t sure anymore.
Then came the true heating. My master worked alone; I wasn’t permitted to assist. The hammer fell with divine precision. The impurities and trapped mana burst in blue sparks, flickering like living light.
It was a sight beyond words—sacred, untouchable. My vocabulary felt useless, pitiful, against that beauty. Even if I tried, I could never make someone else see it, not the way I saw it.
Each blue spark illuminated the dim forge for just an instant, like fireflies dancing in the dark. Every time light washed over my master and the steel, their forms seemed almost otherworldly—dangerous in their allure, as if the forge itself had fallen under a spell.
When the steel unified once more, my master began the training—the sacred rhythm before final shaping. This time, unlike ever before, she opened her mouth and began to chant a norito, an ancient hymn.
The world seemed to shift. Even the mana drawn from the stars resonated with her, filling the forge. The magic circle for mana conduction shone bright blue, and with every strike of the hammer, the steel blazed brighter.
It was a miracle beyond human reach—a god’s work, pure and terrible. The pressure of it crushed me. I understood then: this blade would not hold a concept. It didn’t need one. Anything more would be excess. The steel folded over and over, lengthwise and crosswise, each layer feeding into perfection. Its presence rivaled Magic Metal itself; no Demonsteel could ever compare.
She continued into the shaping—zukuri. The core iron was wrapped in hagane, kawagane, and mune-gane, forming the layered heart of the sword. Then came sunobe, stretching the steel into the early shape of a katana. It didn’t look forged so much as born, growing naturally toward its ideal form.
The curve, the length—everything emerged as though the steel already knew how it wanted to exist. My master never stopped chanting, voice steady, almost like a prayer celebrating a birth.
When the sunobe bar was complete, she coated it with yakibatsuchi, the clay that defines the temper line. Once it dried, she placed it carefully into the forge.
The flames had shifted from red to blue—pure, sky-colored blue. The heat licked evenly across the surface as my master adjusted the position by mere millimeters, never allowing the tiniest imbalance. Watching her, I finally understood why she had said this technique had no future.
This method allows no fluctuation, no variance. It can create only one thing. Whether it’s a sword, a spear, or even scissors—anything with an edge forged this way will end up the same. I understood that… and the understanding itself hurt.
The steel glowed, then plunged into water. Steam erupted. I kept watching through Concept Appraisal, tracing every line of the blade as it cooled, hardened, and grew in presence.
When it was done, my master drew it from the water. The clay flaked off with a sharp crack, revealing the blackened surface beneath. I saw it—and my body froze, stepping back before I could think. I didn’t know why. My instincts screamed that this was dangerous—far more dangerous than the conceptual blades I’d forged myself. Was this truly steel? Was this really a katana?
My master began polishing. Layer after layer of burnt black peeled away, revealing the metal underneath.
It was blue—pure, sky-reflecting blue. Each stroke of the whetstone scattered light, deepening the clarity until the blade seemed to breathe. When she carved the tang, engraved the name, the blade was complete.
She called it a failure—her greatest and most perfect failure.
”This,” she said, voice quiet but heavy, “is my finest and greatest mistake. Its name is Sora-saku—’Sky Rend.’ A blade that seeks only to cut, a blade that dares to sever the sky itself.”
”Sora-saku…” I repeated.
I knew that name. Not the blade itself, but its legend. It appeared once, in an old game—a sword named after the forbidden technique the hero used to wound the final boss by cutting through the world itself. A move that severed not just matter, but law—breaking the universe open to strike the divine. The sword was said to have been forged by the blacksmith god of the Far East, long before the story’s time.
And now, it stood before me. Real.
”Master,” I said quietly, “you once said this technique leads to a dead end.”
She nodded. “I did.”
”You were right. Nothing more can be added to it… and I doubt any human could ever reproduce it.”
”…Yes.”
”Just a blade that can split the sky. I couldn’t reach that, not yet.”
I felt the heat rise in my chest. I had no divine power like my master—Ame-no-Mahitotsu-no-Mikoto. I wasn’t bound to the world, couldn’t touch it, couldn’t borrow its strength.
”To synchronize with the Spiritual Vein and draw mana from the stars as your own… I’m nowhere near ready for that,” I muttered.
My master looked at me—long, silent, unreadable.
”Tatara,” she said softly.
I understood what I’d seen. I knew the process, the phenomena that needed to align to make it work. But knowing isn’t the same as reaching. I didn’t have the weight—the existence strong enough to call out to the world and borrow its mana. I was still just human, and as a human, I lacked the foundation to step fully into that divine territory, much less surpass it.
Which meant only one thing: I could still move forward. The path was there, clear before me. My master had called this method a failed creation, something with no future—but I could see a road to it. I just wasn’t strong enough yet to walk it. Before I could ever evolve that technique, I had to first be able to create it.
As a disciple of Ame-no-Mahitotsu-no-Mikoto, there could be no better challenge for me—Tatara Julon. If surpassing one’s master is the truest form of gratitude, then recreating and evolving this blade was the one goal that defined me as a crafter.
Once, the Chef had given me a purpose—as an Explorer.
Now, my master had given me another—as a Crafter.
My life had never felt so full. To have reasons to live, to work, to push—was so much richer than walking through life half-dead, without direction.
”Tatara,” my master said, sounding half amused, half exasperated, “you really are that kind of man, aren’t you.”
Her sigh cut through the forge air. I grinned, pretending not to notice the faint scolding in it. “Hey, that’s a bit harsh, Master.”
She said nothing, so I kept talking. “I’m not the kind of guy who quits just because something’s too hard for a human. This is where you fight back, right?”
”It was supposed to make you give up,” she said flatly.
”Then give up on me giving up,” I shot back.
She barked a laugh, sudden and rough. “You’re impossible.”
And then she broke. My master threw her head back and laughed, real laughter, loud and deep. Tears slipped from the corners of her eyes as she finally calmed and looked at me.
”This will be your last trial as my student,” she said quietly. “Surpass me, Tatara.”
”I accept, Master,” I answered without hesitation.
She smiled then—pure pride, nothing hidden.
Later that night, I apologized to Ethelena a dozen times before sneaking back into the forge. I bowed to the furnace, lit the fire, and placed the steel within.
I couldn’t make Sora-saku yet—not fully—but I could at least mimic parts of the process. I couldn’t merge with the Spiritual Vein or rouse the star’s mana as fuel, yet I could still trace the mana’s tremor and fill the path with energy just as I did when working with Demonsteel.
I couldn’t hear the steel’s voice, but I could sense its quirks—the little habits that told me how to shape each blade.
I couldn’t draw blue sparks from the hammer, but I could still purge excess mana and impurities through impact and heat.
One by one, I tackled each problem, refining my craft. The greatest wall—the celestial backup, the power of the stars—I’d leave aside until I found a way.
The fundamentals, though—the swing of the hammer, the control of mana—those I could polish endlessly. My master had altered every strike to match the flow of energy; that kind of instinct could be trained, if I stayed close to the forge. If I sharpened my senses enough, maybe I could one day strike as if I heard the steel myself.
Maybe. If I trained under Concept Appraisal, correcting every distortion, I might even craft something close. But deep down I knew—my own habits, my ego, could taint the blade’s purity.
If I made a sword for someone specific, though, I could forge something unmatched—like Ichika’s Peony, a weapon whose true power bloomed only with its wielder.
But Sora-saku wasn’t made for anyone. It was for everyone. In versatility, I couldn’t reach her yet. That was the gap I had to close. Even one small step forward mattered. Each strike, each repetition, would stack until one day it was enough.
But Sora-saku wasn’t made for anyone. It was for everyone. In versatility, I couldn’t reach her yet. That was the gap I had to close. Even one small step forward mattered. Each strike, each repetition, would stack until one day it was enough.
Every katana I forged showed me new flaws. Maybe because I’d seen my master’s limit, every movement of mine now felt raw and incomplete. But overcoming each mistake—feeling myself grow with every correction—was joy itself.
The more challenges appeared, the better my blades became. My master once told me, the day we met, that I already surpassed her in raw technique. She was wrong. Completely. I could see that now. I was still just building theory upon theory, stacking them on the centuries of craft that came before.
I didn’t want to be her copy. I wanted to inherit her history and make it my own. So I replayed the forging of Sora-saku in my head again and again, asking myself what I would do—where I could move better, strike cleaner. Only by doing that could I finish myself as a blacksmith. Only by doing that could I truly face my forge.
So I kept hammering. Kept thinking. Kept drowning in creation.
”…Tatara. You again?”
The voice hit me just as the morning light broke through the high window. My master stood at the doorway, sighing at the sight of me.
Around me lay nearly ten finished blades. I’d just finished polishing one, its edge catching the first sunbeam of dawn.
”Good morning, Master,” I said sheepishly. “I got carried away. It was just too fun to stop.”
She sighed again, but her expression suddenly hardened. Her gaze fell to my hammer—the one lying on the workbench, the one I’d always used.
”Tatara, do you even know what state that hammer’s in?”
I blinked. “My hammer?”
It was the one my parents gave me—alongside my first warhammer. My origin as a crafter. I’d used it since childhood, more than ten years now. I took care of it every day. Sure, lately mana hadn’t flowed through it quite right, but—
”Don’t use it anymore,” she said, voice sharp. “Let it rest.”
”What? But—”
”Tatara!”
The sudden force in her voice made me flinch. Why? Why would she say something so cruel? Without that hammer, I couldn’t forge.
I picked it up, holding it against my chest.
Something gave way inside my hands.
”…Huh?”
The head of the hammer began to crumble.
”A—”
Like sand slipping through my fingers, the pieces fell apart, scattering across the floor.
”Ah…”
Of course. I’d known, hadn’t I? Tools meant for beginners couldn’t last forever, not when pushed this far.
”Ahh—ahhhh—”
I clung to it anyway. It was a memory of my parents—gone now—and I couldn’t let go. I kept using it, kept pretending it would hold. And this was the result.
”UAAAAAAAHHHH!!”
If I’d only let it rest sooner… it wouldn’t have come to this. Damn it, Tatara Julon, you idiot.
”AAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!”
When the hammer lost its form completely and fell into dust at my feet, my consciousness snapped.
Darkness swallowed me.
When I woke, I was somewhere else. I sat at a table in what looked like a garden, though I didn’t recognize it. Across from me sat a faint figure, half-shrouded in light, and between us rested a tea set. I couldn’t make out her face, but the aura… it felt familiar.
She looked worried. I didn’t know why. I couldn’t move, couldn’t even bring myself to touch the tea. There was only the hollow ache of loss, as if something vital had been torn from me.
Then the figure moved, and warmth enveloped me. An embrace—soft, gentle, achingly familiar. My chest burned as grief rose from somewhere deep inside.
I remembered that warmth. Somewhere, sometime, someone had held me the same way. I cried then too.
”…uh… ah…?”
My mind began to surface. My head felt heavy, like I’d been asleep for days.
I was in my room—my bed. Still in my work clothes. Ethelena was going to kill me for that.
Wait. I’d been in the forge. Why was I here?
Had someone found me asleep there and carried me back?
Something felt missing. Like I’d forgotten something vital—but what was it?
”Tatara!”
Ethelena’s voice hit me sharp and scared. She rushed over, eyes wide and wet. “Amatsu-san told me—you collapsed in the forge! You promised me, remember? You said you wouldn’t push yourself like that again!”
Tears trembled at the corners of her eyes as she grabbed my shoulders. I tried to remember what had happened—but my head throbbed, pain pulsing behind my eyes. Why had I collapsed? What could have made me break that promise to her?
”I’m sorry, Ethelena,” I murmured. “But… why did I collapse?”
She stared at me. “Don’t play dumb.”
”I’m serious. I don’t remember. What was I doing in the forge?”
I knew I’d been working—of course I had—but everything after that was a blur. Only a deep, hollow ache lingered in my chest.
”…Tatara?”
”What was I doing?”
”Come on, Tatara, focus. You’re scaring me.”
”I—”
”Tatara!”
Her voice broke into a cry as she threw her arms around me. Her warmth hit like a wave—soft fabric, the rhythm of her heartbeat against my chest.
And then I noticed her clothes were damp. My vision blurred; the world swam in water and light.
”Tatara,” she whispered, “if you need to cry, just cry. I’ll hold you. Don’t stop yourself now.”
”…uh—hick—”
I tried to speak, but only sobs came out. My throat locked, and the tears burst free.
My mind was a mess, my emotions tangled and wild. But through the blur, memory returned—the image of my hammer, crumbling apart in my hands. My parents’ last gift turning to dust. Their memory spilling through my fingers like sand.
The shock had been too much; my mind had locked it away. But Ethelena’s embrace broke that wall. I couldn’t stop crying.
Without thinking, lost in grief and raw instinct, I pulled her down onto the bed with me. She didn’t resist—just held me tighter.
It wasn’t desire—it was desperation. Her body trembled; she wasn’t ready, and I saw the pain twist her face. But I couldn’t stop. I moved without thought, chasing the hollow inside me, filling it with anything—her warmth, her breath, her heartbeat. She endured it, smiling through the hurt like a mother calming a broken child. That mercy shattered me, and I spilled everything into her again and again, until I had nothing left to give.
I don’t know how long it lasted. When my body finally went still, she was still holding me, whispering softly. Her fingers slid through my hair, patient, steady.
”It’s okay now, Tatara. It’s over.”
Her voice soothed me, gentle as sunlight. I could barely answer, voice hoarse and empty.
”…Yeah. I feel lighter now. Thank you, Ethelena.”
She smiled, as if none of what had just happened needed forgiveness. Not even a trace of reproach.
”That hammer you always used,” she said quietly, “that was from your parents, right?”
”Yeah. They gave it to me when I was about five. My first beginner’s hammer.”
It had been meant for older kids—fifteen and up—but I’d handled it fine. Ordinary steel, carefully maintained every day. It had even forged the Archangel’s sword once. A true partner.
”Tatara,” she said after a moment, “can I tell you something?”
”Sure.”
”Remember when you went to my house to pick up those old recipes?”
I smiled faintly. “Yeah, your second day here.”
I remembered it clearly—how the Fluid Mana Stone explosion had burned down the Baral estate. That was right before I finished making Lonisera.
”You brought something else that day,” she said. “A stuffed animal.”
”Oh, right. I don’t know why, but I felt I had to grab it.”
It had been old and ragged, repaired a dozen times—an old dog plush toy. I’d cleaned it up and returned it to her later.
”That was my first birthday gift,” she said softly. “My first friend.”
”I see…”
So it was the same. Her plush, my hammer—both remnants of the people who had loved us most.
”Maybe it’s strange for me to say this,” she went on, “but… are you sure that hammer was the only thing your parents left you?”
I shook my head. “No. There’s more.”
I looked around the house. “This home, for one. The warhammer’s still intact too. And I’m still using half of my parents’ old blessings—Prayer of the Earth Mother from my father, Blessing of the Earth Mother from my mother.”
She nodded slowly. “If you lose something precious, it’s natural to grieve. To regret. But you can’t stay trapped there forever.”
”Yeah… I know.”
It hurt to say it. Moving on always did. But she was right—staying stuck in grief wasn’t living. Still, just for today, I wanted to let myself feel it.
”Tatara,” she said, voice soft, “you can cry today. Just for today. But tomorrow… try to smile again, okay?”
”I’ll try,” I whispered.
She gave a small sigh, brushing my hair back before pressing a kiss to my forehead.
Later, she left for her exploration mission. I couldn’t just lie there doing nothing, so I took a shower. The water washed the sweat and tears away, but not the heaviness inside. Still, at least I was clean when I stepped into the garden.
Out there, under my mother-in-law’s sharp gaze, the idiot and Hinagiku were training again—wooden swords clashing, air humming with rhythm.
”Let the form sink into your body,” my mother-in-law instructed. “Move beyond thought—let the technique become reflex. If you’re stiff, it’s because your body hasn’t yet learned the form. Relax your mind, and match Hinagiku’s movements until they become your own.”
”Yes, ma’am!”
”And Hinagiku—if you swing too hard and hit him again, you’re skipping lunch.”
”Y-yes, ma’am!”
I sighed. Honestly, wasn’t that a bit much for someone who’d just started learning? Then again… maybe it wasn’t. The idiot really was improving fast. His movements were cleaner, sharper. Even with his Sword Aptitude skill, though—how the hell was he learning this quickly?
”Oh, Tatara-san,” my mother-in-law said when she noticed me. “How are you feeling?”
”Good morning, ma’am. Honestly… still trying to sort things out.”
”I see.” Her eyes softened, glancing down. Guilt flickered there—worry, maybe.
”Ah, that reminds me,” she said suddenly. “Tatara-san, we’ve received permission to take custody of that sword. Could you bring it to me later?”
”Really? You’re sure it’s all right?”
”Yes. We have official approval.”
Her tone made it sound less like she was taking it and more like she was stuck with it—but I didn’t mind. Having someone else handle that cursed blade was a relief. I pulled Sora-saku from my inventory and handed it over. She hesitated, her hand twitching as she gripped the sheath.
”…Even sheathed, it’s still radiating power,” she muttered.
”Yeah?” I said, half-smiling. “To me, it just feels like it’s… sleeping and growing.”
”I see,” my mother-in-law said, smiling faintly. “A creator’s sensitivity.”
I didn’t even try to deny it. Somehow, I couldn’t. Maybe she was right.
”By the way,” she added, “Amatsu is waiting for you in the forge. She said she wanted to speak with you.”
My chest tightened. After what had happened—after how I’d lost control, shattered, and humiliated myself—maybe she’d finally had enough of me. From her perspective, I’d fallen apart over a single broken hammer. A master would have every right to be disappointed.
”I understand,” I said quietly. “I’ll go now.”
”Don’t push yourself,” she murmured.
I nodded, though my thoughts and body still felt scattered, out of sync. Maybe she was right to worry.
At the forge door, I stopped and took a few slow breaths before stepping inside. The familiar scent of soot and metal wrapped around me. My master stood waiting in her usual work robes, arms crossed.
”…Sorry I’m late, Master.”
”Hmm.”
She opened her eyes and met mine, studying me carefully.
She opened her eyes and met mine, studying me carefully.
”Still carrying it?” she asked.
”Yes. I’m sorry. It’s just… that hammer was from my parents.”
”I know. I could tell how much it meant to you from the way you treated it.”
Her words struck deeper than I expected. She understood.
”Tatara,” she said softly, “you know this already—everything with form will one day break.”
”I do. But still—”
”Even tools, people, gods—all things eventually decay. That’s the way of the world.”
I nodded slowly. I knew that truth. Nothing lasts forever. Even worlds end. Still, as a creator, something in me refused to accept it. That defiance—it was instinct.
”So, Master,” I said, meeting her gaze again, “are you telling us crafters to just stand by and watch things fall apart?”
”That’s right,” she replied calmly. “It’s nature’s law.”
Something about the exchange felt strangely familiar, almost theatrical—like one of those hero-versus-god dialogues in old stories. Even she seemed to realize it, blinking with a confused look.
”Uh, Master…?”
”Don’t,” she muttered. “Feels like I got swept up in some strange primal instinct there.”
The air between us turned awkward, so I reset the conversation with a breath.
”But you know, Tatara,” she continued, her tone shifting, “broken things can still be reborn into something else. That’s what we blacksmiths do.”
With that, she reached into her inventory and handed me something small. A paper knife—plain, simple, unadorned steel. But the moment I touched it, I knew what it was.
”I gathered the fragments,” she said. “Couldn’t restore it completely, so I reforged what I could. It’s smaller now, I’m afraid.”
It was my hammer—the one that had shattered—melted down and reborn. She had gone out of her way to collect the pieces and shape them into something new.
”Thank you, Master,” I whispered.
”Don’t cry, Tatara. It’s just a bit of meddling from your teacher.”
But I couldn’t stop the tears. It wasn’t just a tool—it was a memory given back to me, reshaped but alive again.
”I can’t help it,” I said with a shaky laugh. “Something this precious… you can’t expect me not to cry. I really thought this was going to be a scolding, not—this.”
”Ah, well… about that,” she said, scratching her cheek.
Her expression turned oddly hesitant.
”To tell you the truth, that was… kind of the bonus.”
”Wait—this isn’t the main reason you called me?”
The tears dried up immediately. Damn it. Embarrassing.
”The real reason,” she continued, pulling out another item, “was to give you this.”
She placed it in my hands—a hammer.
The grip fit perfectly to my hand. The head, nearly identical to my old one, had a bit more weight—balanced to my current strength. Yet somehow, it didn’t feel heavy at all. Maybe because it carried the same spirit.
”Master… is this—”
She nodded, averting her eyes slightly. “Yes. You’ve mastered my techniques in such a short time. Take this as proof of full transmission—your certification as a true smith.”
She looked away, almost shy. It struck me then—she’d said before I was her first disciple. That meant this was her first time ever granting full succession.
I couldn’t refuse. Doing so would be an insult to everything she’d taught me.
”Thank you, Master,” I said firmly. “I’ll keep improving—enough to honor this hammer and the name you’ve given me.”
She nodded, smiling proudly.
I had lost the hammer my parents gave me, but it had returned in another form. And now, a new hammer—a symbol of my growth—had been entrusted to me.
I really was lucky. To meet someone who made me want to live, to keep walking the path of a crafter with my head held high.
—
Under the pale moonlight, when darkness had fully claimed the night, a lone figure stood in the Julon family garden. Her name was Torakuma Kasumi—Tatara’s mother-in-law, and a youkai woman of quiet grace and unfathomable power.
In one hand, she held the mithril fan Tatara had forged for her. With a measured motion, she danced across the garden, inscribing a vast spell formula into the air. The circle’s complexity was almost excessive, but for good reason—this was no ordinary spell. She was attempting to open a line of communication across the sea, reaching a distant nation. Only by borrowing mana from the Spiritual Vein could she sustain such magic long enough.
”…Can you hear me, dear?”
A gruff male voice answered through the shimmering light.
”Yeah, Kasumi. I can hear you. But seriously—a note on the mirror in red saying ‘I’m running away, don’t look for me’? Have you lost your mind?”
It had been days since they’d last spoken. Their reunion began, as always, with his complaints.
”I just thought it would be sad to leave without any flair,” she replied with a teasing lilt.
”You have no idea how hard I had to work to stop my retainers from planning a remarriage. You could at least pretend to feel sorry for me.”
”Oh my, you’re unusually sentimental outside the bedroom.”
”Kasumi…”
Her husband, Torakuma Nobutsuna, head of the Torakuma family, sighed in exasperation. But Kasumi smiled softly, comforted by the familiar tone. She only ever joked like this because she knew his affection was unshakable.
”Hah… I can’t win with you. Fine. Why’d you call me, then? You didn’t cast something this big just to gossip, did you?”
His worry was obvious—even across nations, he could read the shifts in her voice. Kasumi’s lips curved faintly as she made her request.
”There’s a katana I’d like you to surrender to, my dear.”
”…Surrender? What the hell do you mean? And what kind of cursed weapon have you people made this time?”
”More precisely,” she said lightly, “a cursed weapon has just been born.”
Nobutsuna groaned, pressing a hand to his forehead. “Let me guess. Amatsu forged another Sorasaku, didn’t she?”
”Not quite. She just passed the technique on to Tatara. He said he understands the theory, but can’t reproduce it yet.”
”He understood the theory?” Nobutsuna’s voice sharpened. “That’s… absurd.”
No one—not even within Hizuru—had ever fully grasped Ame-no-Mahitotsu-no-Mikoto’s blacksmithing. That a mere human, Tatara Julon, could comprehend it at all was proof of monstrous talent. He’d already created things the world had never seen—now he was deciphering divine craftsmanship itself.
Kasumi chuckled softly. “And the one who actually forged that special-grade hazard was Tatara himself.”
”Oh, wonderful,” Nobutsuna muttered. “So he enjoys giving me ulcers now?”
”On the contrary, his affection for you seems high. When he designed an auto-retracting reel for fishing rods, he actually paused to wonder whether you’d enjoy it.”
Nobutsuna paused. “…That’s… kind of touching.”
Kasumi hid her smile. Kind of touching? He was practically glowing. She decided not to mention that the rod in question was made entirely of true silver. She adored seeing him flustered—especially when he later tried to “punish” her for it.
”Fine,” he said finally. “We’ll take custody of Tatara’s katana.”
Kasumi smirked. “A gift from your son-in-law. You must be thrilled.”
”I haven’t formally acknowledged him yet. Though… yeah. When I first met the boy, I did think I wouldn’t mind giving Yohira to him.”
Her sharp gaze made him correct himself mid-sentence. He’d already respected Tatara then—if he hadn’t, he wouldn’t have dismissed the young man’s stubbornness as youthful fire.
”So,” he asked, “what kind of weapon are we dealing with?”
Kasumi’s tone turned crisp. “A blade so refined in the concept of cutting that it severs anything it touches.”
He groaned. “Does he even know what restraint means?”
”He does. He just… forgets to use it sometimes. He said it was an accident—he pursued sharpness so deeply that even concepts couldn’t remain attached to it.”
In truth, Tatara’s unnamed conceptual weapon wasn’t so different from Ame-no-Mahitotsu-no-Mikoto’s failed creation, Sora-saku. One embodied absolute sharpness that transcended concept; the other, the perfected concept of “severance” itself. Different routes, same destination—inevitable, perhaps, between master and disciple.
”And how exactly are we supposed to store something that dangerous?” Nobutsuna asked.
Kasumi smiled knowingly. “It’s sealed in a sheath imbued with the concept of sleep. As long as the two remain together, it’s safe. The blade and sheath form a single balanced weapon.”
He sighed. “Only Tatara would forge something that dangerous and still have the foresight to counterbalance it. No wonder the city mayor’s always on the brink of collapse.”
He wasn’t wrong. Kasumi remembered the poor woman’s strained smile and felt a flicker of sympathy. No one, however, pitied the bird-shaped golem tasked with delivering Tatara’s volatile packages—it suffered the most.
”Oh, and one more thing,” Kasumi added. “That sword still doesn’t have a name. Tatara said the one who inherits it should name it themselves. So please—give it something worthy, like Yohira’s.”
Nobutsuna exhaled heavily. “Now I finally understand why Tatara hates naming things.”
Kasumi hesitated, then added, “There’s… another favor.”
He stiffened. “There’s more?!”
His instincts screamed that this would hurt more than the first request.
”I’ve met someone here,” she said calmly. “Someone with sword talent beyond imagining. Tatara asked Hinagiku to teach them, but she lacks the skill to guide them properly. So—I’d like you to send your sword instructor here.”
”Kasumi, are you serious?!”
He almost shouted. The Torakuma household’s sword instructor was one of the strongest in all Hizuru—among the top five blades in the nation. To request such a person was no small thing.
”I’m serious,” she said firmly. “They’re a friend of Tatara’s, but their potential is extraordinary. If left untrained, it would be a loss for humanity itself.”
He stared at her, stunned. “You haven’t said that about anyone since Yohira.”
”This one rivals her,” Kasumi said simply. “If they’d been born in Hizuru, I’d have claimed them as family already.”
Nobutsuna fell silent, thinking. He trusted his wife’s instincts—and he wanted to grant her wishes—but sending the instructor overseas would be a nightmare of logistics and politics. Even Yohira, the Torakuma family’s strongest warrior, had been judged unworthy by that same instructor’s brutal standards.
”I’ll… talk to them,” he finally said. “But that sword-addict of ours won’t agree easily.”
Kasumi raised an eyebrow. “You really think you’re in any position to call someone else a sword-addict?”
He looked away, guilty. It was true—he sparred with the instructor every month under the pretense of “practice,” usually earning scoldings from his retainers afterward. Without his title, he’d probably have already gone to the Julon household himself, swinging a sword through their dungeon.
Kasumi chuckled softly. “Don’t worry. There’s bait enough to tempt even them.”
”Oh?”
”A katana forged by the direct disciple of Ame-no-Mahitotsu-no-Mikoto,” she said sweetly. “Several of them, in fact.”
Notes:
• Ichika – The fox girl. Kunoichi.
• Amatsu – A master blacksmith and a female. Demonstrate forging skill to Tatara. The duel arises from Tatara’s request for guidance. Senior craftsman guiding Tatara. No kin known. Golden right eye and calm mastery define her.
• Hinagiku – A tengu woman as Ranka’s potential companion. She stays with Tatara’s group after travels. Joins household scenes only. Linked to Ranka by shared gluttony jokes. No direct tie to Tatara beyond cohabitation. Cheerful eater.
• Yohira – Torakuma’s first name.
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Edited by Kanaa-senpai.
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