The eastern marshes of the Emishi were a world of sucking mud, tangled roots, and a mist that clung to the skin like a shroud. Ren moved through it like the final, cutting wind of a dying storm. The Kusanagi sword was unsheathed, its blade not gleaming but drinking the faint light, a permanent scar of nothingness humming in his grip.
The Emishi warriors came at him from the fog—painted faces, bone charms, and spears tipped with obsidian. They fought with the fury of those defending their sacred land.
Ren did not fight. He unmade.
He didn't swing the sword in wide arcs. He flicked it. With each subtle motion, a whisper of "Asto'rt" on his lips, the sword left a trail of vacuum. The very air screamed as it was torn apart. A warrior's spear was severed, the cut so clean it seemed the metal
