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Chapter 21 – The Birth of Death
Kelvin stirred awake, his eyes fluttering open to the dim green glow of moss clinging to the dungeon's jagged walls. The potion bottle lay empty beside him, its glass cracked where his grip had unconsciously tightened in the throes of transformation. His chest rose and fell sharply, lungs fighting to keep pace with the wild surge of energy raging within.
Every breath was heavier than before, yet clearer, sharper—as though the air itself parted willingly to enter his body. His senses stretched further, brushing against the faint echoes of scurrying creatures hidden in distant cracks.
"Basic Tier Rank Three…" Kelvin whispered, the words tasting foreign and powerful on his tongue. His hand flexed. The strength packed into each muscle trembled against his control, raw and impatient. It wasn't just strength—his Qi channels thrummed like taut strings, ready to sing the moment his will brushed against them.
He rose, brushing dirt and stone flakes off his clothes. His body felt alien, too perfect, too precise. Every shift of weight carried balance. Every inhale brought with it a terrifying awareness of the world: the faint stench of beast fur clinging to the rocks, the subtle tremor of something lurking three tunnels away, the faint metallic bite of his blade resting at his side.
But alongside that intoxicating strength, there was also a pressure. Power came with expectations—his own, the dungeon's, maybe even fate's. And he needed to meet them head-on.
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Sword Practice
He unsheathed his sword slowly, the steel catching the moss-light in fractured gleams. For a moment, he just looked at it, remembering yesterday's battles—when every strike was an act of survival, every swing a gamble. Now? It felt like he stood on the edge of discovery, a new blade waiting to be born through him.
He began with the skill etched into his memory by the rune stone.
"Eclipse Sever."
The blade swung in a diagonal arc, leaving behind a shimmering crescent that pulsed with dark Qi before fading. The power cracked the dungeon wall several feet away, carving a scar into stone that hadn't been touched in centuries. The sound echoed, distant rocks tumbling like applause.
Kelvin grinned, breathless. It was strong, but it wasn't enough. Not yet.
He shifted into his self-created techniques.
"Diablo-Shikai." His stance widened, blade tilting, his Qi spilling like a torrent through his veins. The strike shot forward, chaotic and brutal.
"Shinto-Shika." A sharper, refined follow-up—the complete opposite, precise like a needle threading silk.
Both techniques slammed into the wall, shaking dust free, but Kelvin's expression only darkened. His growth had amplified them, yes, but the gap between techniques gnawed at him. The rune skill was structured, elegant in its design. His own creations were raw, birthed out of instinct.
Still… what if instinct and structure could fuse?
Now that he has had the time he decided to do a little reflection on himself– What the Sword Means not just generally thinking but emotionally what does a blade mean to him
He lowered the blade, sweat slicking his palms despite the chill. His mind turned—not to his heritage, not to a mysterious lineage he knew nothing about—but to the weight of the sword itself.
This world, Qiveria, had once been humanity's last chance. After Earth's fall, after fire and ruin swallowed their home, they had clawed their way onto this planet, building from nothing. Swords and blades had been the first tools of survival here. Against beasts, against hunger, against despair itself.
"A sword isn't just steel," Kelvin muttered, running a finger along the flat edge of his blade. "It's the will to live… and the promise that you'll cut down whatever tries to take that away." " it's my will, my hope"
That was the difference. That was what he was missing.
He inhaled deeply and centered himself.
"Thousand Flowing Blades…" He visualized the skill—how it split into countless streams of sharp, fluid motion, overwhelming the opponent through speed and multiplicity.
Then he tried to lace Eclipse Sever into its flow. The first attempt exploded in his face. His blade vibrated violently, sending a shockwave through his arm. Blood dripped from his lip as he staggered back, sword barely held in his grip.
Second attempt—same clash, same failure. His Qi scattered, the blade crying out against his control.
Kelvin laughed bitterly, spitting crimson on the dungeon floor. "If it was easy, it wouldn't be worth doing."
On the third attempt, he changed something. Instead of forcing them together, he let them breathe, let them feel each other. Thousand Flowing Blades wasn't just speed—it was rhythm. Eclipse Sever wasn't just destruction—it was silence, the stillness before the cut.
He aligned his stance, steadied his pulse, and moved.
Then something clicked inside him, blade aura tlong awaited breakthrough
The dungeon held its breath as his Qi surged. His sword hummed, vibrating in resonance with his heartbeat. Then—
The world split.
An invisible wave burst outward from his blade, silent yet absolute. The moss-light flickered as if suffocating. Air seemed to warp.
Beasts hidden in the shadows collapsed instantly, their bodies falling with dull thuds, blood trailing from unseen cuts. Not one had been touched directly, yet every life within ten meters had been reaped.
Kelvin lowered his blade, chest heaving, eyes wide with awe and terror.
"…Death Blade."
The name slipped out instinctively. Because that's what it was. A strike not bound by edge or distance, but by inevitability.
But the cost—
His left hand tingled, numb, refusing to respond fully. His Qi had been gutted, drained faster than he could replenish. The technique wasn't just dangerous to his enemies—it was dangerous to him.
"Something's missing," he whispered, gripping his sword tighter. "But what?".
Exhausted but restless, Kelvin pressed deeper into the dungeon's fourth floor. The air grew colder, heavier, as though weighed down by history itself. The walls bore murals—ancient, carved by trembling hands long before his time.
He traced them with his fingers. Warriors with crude blades stood against towering beasts. Flames, tears, sacrifice. Men and women carving a future from hopelessness.
One image made him pause: a warrior holding a blade that cut not only his enemies, but himself. Blood poured from the wielder, but his people survived behind him.
Kelvin's stomach knotted. The stronger the sword, the greater the sacrifice. Was that what the Death Blade demanded of him?
"Figures…" he muttered, lips curling into a bitter smile. "Power always comes at a price."
But he wouldn't turn away. Not here. Not now.
The hairs on his neck rose. This wasn't the creeping shuffle of beasts or the groan of shifting stone. No, this was something else—an aura, cold and deliberate, watching him from the dark.
Kelvin raised his blade, the edge quivering slightly from his drained Qi, but his resolve steady.
"If you want me," he whispered into the silence, his eyes narrowing, "come and see if my blade agrees."
The dungeon's shadows stirred.
And then—darkness moved.
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✍️ Author's Note
🔥 Death Blade has finally been born! But it came with a cost… do you think Kelvin will be able to master it without destroying himself in the process?
Also, who—or what—do you think is stalking him in the dungeon's fourth floor?
💬 Comment below! Your theories give me life and help me shape the journey forward.
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