After being spared by Kagetsu, silence devoured Sera's life. It wasn't the comforting silence of peace—it was the chilling, invasive hush that came after something had broken beyond repair. But it wasn't truly silent. There was always a whisper. Always her.
Ayane's voice was there when Sera woke, when she tried to sleep, and in the aching quiet between heartbeats. A ghost tethered to her soul, whispering things Sera didn't want to hear in a voice too familiar to fight.
"You were abandoned," Ayane said, soft as poison. "He left you behind."
At first, Sera resisted. She prayed, she meditated, she pleaded for help from the gods. But the gods—silent and watching from their ivory thrones—turned away. Perhaps they feared Kagetsu more than they pitied her. Or perhaps they saw Ayane not as a threat, but as an opportunity.
She was useful, after all. The gods needed someone powerful. Someone broken. Someone like Ayane.
The corruption came slowly, like a fog. It didn't tear through Sera's mind—it seeped into her memories, her instincts, her truths. She began to forget which thoughts were hers. Her hands healed the sick while her dreams burned cities. Her voice spoke words of hope while her shadow whispered of vengeance.
The face in the mirror blurred. One day she wept, looking at herself and seeing Ayane smiling back.
In time, she stopped resisting.
It wasn't possession—it was merging. Sera didn't vanish. She became the mask that Ayane wore.
And when Ayane fully awakened, she smiled inside Sera's body.
Her first desire was not destruction. It was him.
Kagetsu.
She had to see him again. She had to prove that she had returned.
And Sera—what remained of her—led the way.
They found him in the ruins of a forgotten city, high in the mountains, buried under ivy and starlight. Kagetsu stood at the heart of it all, like a statue carved from moonlight and steel, silent and eternal.
He did not flinch when they arrived.
Ayane's voice came from Sera's mouth, thick with mockery. "You knew I would come."
Kagetsu said nothing.
"You could've stopped this," she continued. "You could've saved her."
Still, he was silent.
Then she moved—graceful and deadly. A dagger shimmered into her hand, old and cursed. It hummed with forbidden power. Her intent was clear.
But Kagetsu moved before she did.
There was no sound. No scream. No struggle.
Just one clean, precise motion.
And Sera crumpled.
The dagger slipped from her hand. Her body dropped like a leaf, soft and final. Her eyes, wide with something like understanding, met his for a brief, flickering moment.
Then came his voice. A whisper meant only for her:
"Sleep, child. You were never meant to carry this hate."
And just like that… it was over.
No spectacle. No triumph.
Only stillness.
Kagetsu stood above her body for a long time. No gods descended. No one came to mourn. The ruins swallowed the moment, and time moved on.
Kagetsu vanished that day.
He left no footprints. No farewell. No explanation.
From that moment forward, his name became legend—spoken in hushed tones by those who remembered the war, the fire, the silence.
He became a ghost.
A shadow behind every conflict. A name feared even by gods.
They say when someone speaks of him, the air grows colder. That even the bravest warriors feel something ancient stir in their bones.
But to those who truly remembered him—not the myths, not the killer, not the godslayer—he was something else.
A man who bore too many burdens.
A man who disappeared.
Too Be Continued..