The environment remained drowned in oppressive silence a wasteland of cold stone and a sky without horizon. The silver mist danced in whirlwinds at the mountain's core, forming a vortex so intense that the air itself seemed liquid.
Layers upon layers of dense vapor moved in concentric spirals, pushing and compressing each other until they created the illusion of a living entity breathing in slow, heavy intervals. The mist slid down the valley like mercury, dragging with it the pale glow of the eternal moon above a moon that never set.
If anyone approached the center of that phenomenon, they would see a body lying among the ruins of an apocalyptic battlefield. The stones were cracked, the ground transformed into a mosaic of craters, and at the very center the eye of the storm a winged body lay motionless.
The wings, once white, were now soaked in blood and dust, their tips burned and torn like ancient scrolls. The left arm was bent backward at an unnatural angle, the bone piercing through the flesh in a grotesque line, and a large crimson pool spread slowly beneath it, staining the gray soil with a funereal hue.
A few meters away, planted in the ground like the banner of a lost war, his sword remained upright the blade embedded in stone and covered by a thin layer of mist. The landscape around spoke of carnage: overlapping craters, colossal slash marks, fragments of molten rock, and the metallic scent of blood mixed with cold dust. It was the silent testimony of a battle that had surpassed the limits of body, mind, and perhaps even soul.
From time to time, a golden halo flickered above the body, its wavering glow pulsing like the last heartbeat of something in agony. With each flash came a faint cracking sound from within the Nephilim too small to rise above the distant roar of the vortex, but gradually growing stronger.
The first was timid, then another, clearer. Then dozens more like branches snapping one by one under the weight of a fallen tree.
Hours crawled by.
The wind shifted direction.
The halo continued its cycle: light, fade, light again.
Each flash was followed by a new sound bones realigning, tendons stretching, flesh fusing back together. The deformed arm began to tremble, twitching in violent spasms until, with a sharp and painful snap, it returned to its proper position.
The sound was so loud it made the mist shudder around him, dispersing for an instant.
The body was still motionless, pale, dehydrated, but the bleeding had stopped. The dead flesh began to regain warmth, and tiny cracks on the skin started to close slowly. The wings shivered once, as if brushed by a faint breath of air.
A few more hours passed, and the swirling mist continued its intricate motion, as if waiting for something to happen. Then, in the deepest silence, a faint sound broke through — a gasp, rough and frightened, the kind of sound made by someone reborn and struggling to remember how to breathe.
No one heard that sound.
No one but me.
But in that instant between the last flicker of the halo and the first movement of the chest the Nephilim race revealed a bizarre power of recovery that perhaps no longer existed anywhere else.
**
"AGH…" I gasped with my first conscious breath a sound more animal than human.
"COUGH…" I spat out a lump of blood that tore its way up from some deep pit inside me; the metallic taste burned my tongue and ran hot down my chin.
My body protested in every fiber; it felt like weeks of torture had been condensed into precise points of pain. I could barely lift my head. I twisted my torso with effort, rolled onto my back, and let the air seep in slowly, like someone bargaining with knives. Each breath brought a choir of needles piercing through my lungs; my eyes burned as if someone had rubbed them with burning coal.
I closed my eyelids and, through deliberate effort, tried to calm the inner storm.
I meditated for what felt like minutes or perhaps hours; my perception was unreliable. For a brief moment I let go of vigilance and fell into a restorative sleep the kind that stitches the body back together. Not the empty faint of exhaustion, but a sleep that bites and heals at once.
When I opened my eyes again, the mist before me was in motion.
Spirals of vapor danced and collided, as if conversing in ancient whispers.
When I turned my head, I noticed something strange: the stream of mist seemed to settle — as though it acknowledged my movement, or waited for me to take the lead.
It took me a while before I stood up.
Leaning on the blade buried in the ground — now an improvised cane — I forced my muscles to obey. Every step hurt, every tendon screamed, but there was a clear direction: the mist parted ahead of me, forming a liquid corridor that pointed upward. A path carved from the very air itself.
I walked for several minutes, my feet sinking into gray dust, my thoughts still sluggish. The mist felt like an invisible hand pushing me forward. As I climbed, the sound of the wind changed: no longer a sharp hiss, but a deep hum, almost… musical.
Finally, I reached a staircase of gray marble rising before me like a giant vertebra. Each step was polished by time not by recent use, but by ages; thin silver veins ran through the stone, glimmering under the pale light that descended from above.
The sight struck me with a mix of disbelief and reverence.
"No way there was something like this on this mountain," I muttered to no one but the wind. My voice came out hoarse, yet there was a sharp smile hidden within it the kind of smile born when, amidst chaos, one finds a fragment of meaning.
The mist drew back like a lifted curtain, revealing the full staircase spiraling upward into an oval opening where the light seemed to boil. I felt, with what strength remained, that it wasn't mere architecture; it was either an invitation or a very well-dressed trap.
I pressed my hand against the sword, pushed myself forward, and began to climb. Each step demanded breath, each movement was a negotiation with pain. But as I ascended, I noticed something else: the silver veins in the marble pulsed in sync with the inner moon rising inside me — the blood-red moon of my inner world. It was as if that staircase responded to the same spectral rhythm beating in my chest.
I climbed slowly, attentive to every vibration beneath my soles. The mist behind me closed in like a circle sealing the past. As I neared the opening, a low resonance filled the air — a note that seemed to come from bone, reverberating deep within my chest.
At the top, the light grew stronger and, for an instant, all that had been ruin and blood and struggle collapsed into a cruel clarity: I had passed through a forge. And in that forge, though mutilated, something within me had taken shape. The slow moon, far below, trembled like a promise.
I drew a deep breath, braced my pain with the resolve I had left, and took the final step toward whatever the mountain had kept hidden.
The last step transported me there was no other word to the summit of the highest peak in the entire range. The wind there was razor-sharp, but the first thing that struck me wasn't the cold. It was the sorrowful truth.
And before my mind could even process what I was seeing, tears rolled down my face. They weren't mine. They seemed to escape straight from the body itself — as if, at some level beyond my control, it was responding to that sight.
Four obelisks pierced the summit, rising like the ancient pillars of a forgotten temple. Each one bore a carving of a different phase of the moon—new, waxing, full, and waning.
The cold gleam of the inscriptions pulsed in shades of silver, except for one pillar: the full moon. It radiated a trembling crimson light, as if it were breathing.
That obelisk was calling to me. I could feel its desire to possess me, to draw me closer. That was the one that wanted me near.
But the reason for the tears lay below.
At the feet of the four obelisks, upon three stone altars, rested severed heads—each placed before the symbols of the new, waxing, and waning moons. The dried blood had merged with the rock, staining it a dark, almost black hue. I recognized the faces, even disfigured by death: Aurora, Alexa, and Alvin. Three of the siblings of the original owner of this body, members of the Kenshin family.
My chest grew heavy, as if gravity itself had doubled.
"Looks like that makes twenty siblings dead because of this absurd trial…" I muttered, my voice hoarse, lost to the wind. I wiped my face, brushing away tears that refused to stop—not from conscious mourning, but reflex.
Maybe the body still wept for them, even if it was my mind in control, for what I theorized was only temporarily.
"Is this world real?" I asked. "Did the pagoda transport me to another planet? Or is this just a pocket world created for this purpose—and it'll vanish the moment I leave?"
I lingered there for a few seconds, simply observing. The silence was heavy, almost ritualistic. The air felt trapped between the obelisks, and even the eternal moon—the one that never set—glowed a paler shade, as if paying its own respects.
I planted my sword on the ground and, before moving forward, bowed deeply before the three altars. A long, deliberate reverence, done with the weight of recognition and the sincerity of someone carrying a history that wasn't entirely his own.
"I hope that when I leave—and return this body, however this works—the real Axis can achieve his goals. And if that means vengeance, so be it."
The words dissolved into the wind, yet I felt them echo back, as if the valley itself had listened.
Then I raised my gaze to the full-moon obelisk—the only one still pulsing. Its red light quivered in response, as though approving my presence.
And even exhausted, with my body in tatters, I took a step forward.
The moment I neared the full-moon obelisk, a column of crimson light burst from its peak, cutting through the thin air and striking me directly in the chest.
There was no pain—no heat, no pressure—only an absolute silence, as if the world had stopped for an instant.
But inside me, in the deep and chaotic expanse of my inner world, everything began to change.
The first sensation was expansion.
A raw, tangible flow of energy invaded my body, filling every corner of my inner world.
The black gravitational abyss, once inert and cold, began to pulse in waves of power.
The spatial rifts floating above it expanded, their edges growing sharper, more defined.
Above, the storm clouds that once held electric discharges split apart in a dazzling flare; a single red lightning bolt crossed the heavens, nearly tearing reality itself. And the two suns—the red and the blue—shone twice as bright across the expanse of my inner world.
But the true spectacle unfolded beside them.
The moon.
That ghostly moon, which once existed only as a translucent silhouette—a faint memory of something greater—now became real. A vortex of crimson energy formed around it, spiraling like a celestial hurricane. Its edges, once undefined, solidified into silver stained with blood until, at last, the full moon emerged in splendor, hanging above the sky.
It was magnificent, menacing, and beautiful all at once—a living moon that seemed to breathe and watch.
Then I felt it.
Something deep, carved not in flesh but in the soul.
A living inscription formed within the white sea of soul energy—the essence of my being. Symbols unknown to me burned like molten lines, glowing softly until they fused into the fabric of my consciousness.
And with them came understanding.
"Third Movement: Art of the Full Moon."
The words echoed like an ancient whisper, repeating within my mind until they became part of me. The Phantom Moon technique was no longer an incomplete mystery—I now understood its core principle.
The afterimage was not a mere physical reflection but a delayed projection of soul energy a duplication of a completed movement, replayed with precise delay.
And the most astonishing part: it wasn't limited to the blade.
I could apply it to any motion, any attack, any expression of my power so long as soul energy could reach it.
The blood-red moon within my inner world shone one last time, and I felt the seal complete itself.
"Art of the Full Moon…" I murmured, with a faint, weary smile.
But it didn't end there. Before I could even grasp what had happened to me, the other three obelisks began to react.
First, a dim glow seeped from their surfaces; then, in unison, they released silvery beams that cut through the air with a resonant hum, all converging upon my chest.
This time, the impact was different.
There was no heat, no pulsating energy but weight. A chilling weight that sank into my being, as though something had been chained within me.
In my inner world, the reflection was immediate.
Three new moons began to emerge around the newly formed full moon.
But unlike the majestic red one that glowed like liquid blood, these were pale, gray, lifeless—like they'd been sculpted from dead stone.
Worse still, black chains stretched from the gravitational abyss, wrapping around them.
Chains that groaned and tightened, preventing those moons from radiating even the faintest light.
The three gray moons orbited slowly around the crimson full moon, small and silent—like forgotten fragments of something once grand.
"They're the movements I haven't mastered…" I murmured, watching the internal spectacle stabilize.
The chains pulsed once more, settling firmly in place.
"At least… I have the chance to study them later. And maybe one day, master the complete technique."
My gaze lifted to the full moon, still shining sovereign, casting its crimson glow over the others.
"Three sealed… one awakened. Truly, a treasure worthy of a great family's legacy."
I felt my consciousness detaching from the body—as if the link between flesh and soul were a silk thread slowly being cut.
"It's ending," I thought, without emotion—only acceptance.
And indeed, within seconds, everything began to unravel.
The vision crumbled into white.
The sounds vanished, swallowed by perfect silence.
The weight of the body disappeared, followed soon after by the very concept of heat and cold.
For an instant, I hung suspended between being and ceasing to be.
And there, in that ethereal threshold, something… whispered.
A faint voice, distant like the echo of a dream, murmured something.
"...Thank… you…"
I couldn't be sure I'd really heard it.
In the end, I think it was just a hallucination—born from the exhaustion of the soul.
Either way, the world around me dissolved completely.
When I came to, I was back there—in that vast, infinite white void where everything was made of soul energy.
The calm was almost sacred.
There was no pain, no gravity, no time. Only the serene flow of something pure and unfathomable.
I could feel my very essence pulsing, refining itself.
Every particle of spiritual energy within me was being compressed, honed, and expanded again, in an endless cycle of perfection.