The corridor, which until then had seemed to be designed by the laziest architect in the universe, finally opened into something I definitely did not expect to find in the heart of a cultist propaganda tower with such a pretentious name. It would have been less surprising to find a sleeping dragon or a collection of Natsu's lost socks.
Vibrant red torii gates, almost blood-red, rose in a harmonious sequence, forming a solemn path that crossed what could only be described as a shrine. The floor was made of a dark, polished wood, so smooth and shiny that it reflected the ceiling beams like the surface of a quiet, nocturnal lake. And falling from above, in a constant and hypnotic flow, floating lazily in the air without the slightest influence of any breeze or draught…
Cherry blossom petals. Pale pink, delicate, and endless.
"This is…" Erza murmured beside me, her hand instinctively going to the hilt of her sword.
"A Japanese garden," I completed, my voice a little lower than usual, feeling something ancient and terribly familiar stir in the depths of my vast memory. (A very good imitation, I must admit. But still, an imitation.)
[Full environmental analysis in progress. The petals are, in fact, magical constructs, not organic. Stable energy levels. And there is a unique and powerful presence further ahead.]
(I know. I'd already felt it.)
At the end of the torii path, on a raised platform covered by a single, immaculate tatami mat, sat a woman, in perfect seiza. Her hair, a light pink that matched the floating petals, cascaded down her back like silk. She wore an elaborate kimono, in shades of red and white, with golden details that shone softly in the magical light of the room. And from her lips… a song escaped.
The melody was ancient, frighteningly familiar. A subtle war song, disguised as poetry about the ephemerality of beauty. Each note carried the silent weight of sharp blades and spilt blood.
"Sakura… sakura…" her voice was crystalline, as pure as the chime of a bell, and yet, laden with a cutting melancholy. Hypnotic. Dangerous.
"Yayoi no sora wa… mi-watasu kagiri…"
[Positive identification. Opponent: Ikaruga. Title: Leader of the Trinity Raven assassin unit. Registered primary combat style: Mugetsu-Ryu. Threat classification—]
(I know who she is, Eos. Calm down.)
The woman, Ikaruga, slowly opened her eyes. They were a piercing green, like those of a snake about to strike.
"Visitors," she said, her voice maintaining that musical and frightening quality even when she spoke. "I was beginning to think that the noisy Vidaldus and Fukuro had finished all the fun on their own."
With a single, fluid, and silent movement, like water rising against gravity, she stood up. In her right hand, where before there was nothing, a katana in a simple black scabbard appeared, as if it had materialised from the very air.
"Erza Scarlet," Ikaruga continued, her green eyes passing appraisingly over my companion, with a mixture of curiosity and contempt. "The great Titania of Fairy Tail. Jellal-sama has spoken much of you. Of your strength. And of your weakness."
"I don't give a damn what that monster said," Erza replied, her voice as firm and cutting as the steel of her own sword. "Now, get out of our way."
"And you…" the cold, analytical green eyes finally turned to me. "Azra'il Weiss. The sharp-tongued companion. I don't have much information on you, only a warning from Jellal-sama that I should not, under any circumstances, underestimate you. Interesting."
I did not answer. I was too busy observing. Studying.
The way she held the scabbard with her left hand, her fingers relaxed but ready. The angle of her feet on the tatami mat. The almost imperceptible weight distribution, subtly favouring the right side of her body. (She's left-handed. A left-handed swordswoman, but she positions her katana for a right-handed draw. An old and effective trick to confuse opponents and break their rhythm on the first strike. It won't work on me, my dear.)
"You may, with all certainty, pass," Ikaruga said, a slow, smug smile forming on her painted lips. "That is, if you can defeat me, of course. But here is my warning, as a gesture of courtesy between warriors: of the three blades of the Trinity Raven, mine, without a shadow of a doubt, is the sharpest."
Erza, with the noble impulsiveness that characterised her, took a step forward, her hand already firmly on the hilt of her sword, ready for the duel.
"Erza." My voice stopped her in her tracks. "Go."
She turned and looked at me, genuinely surprised and perhaps a little offended.
"What?"
"Your target is Jellal. He is yours," I said simply, my eyes fixed on Ikaruga, who was observing our interaction with a condescending amusement. "And we, frankly, do not have time for the two of us to be stuck here in a duel of honour and dramatic speeches."
"But, Azra'il, she is the leader! We should face her together! It's dangerous!"
"I'll handle her." My words were calm, but there was no room for argument in them.
Ikaruga laughed, a delicate, crystalline sound that perfectly matched the cherry blossom petals falling gently around her.
"What an absolutely admirable confidence, little wolf. But do you really think, with all your presumption, that I will let my main target simply pass by me and go on her way?"
And then, she moved.
Fast. Terribly, absurdly fast. A blur of red and white, the katana leaving its scabbard in a silent silver line, aimed directly at Erza's neck—
Clang.
The sound of ancient wood against forged steel echoed drily through the silent shrine.
My Jian. My old and faithful training sword, made from the heartwood of a tree from another world. It was now firmly positioned between Ikaruga's lethal blade and Erza's throat, blocking the deadly blow with a precision and a calm that made the swordswoman's green eyes widen for a split second.
"Your opponent, Ikaruga," I said calmly, unfazed, "is me."
For a moment that felt like an eternity, no one moved. Erza, trapped between the two of us, was paralysed by surprise and the speed of what had just happened.
Then, with the same fluidity as her attack, Ikaruga retreated, her expression quickly changing from an arrogant surprise to something that looked like genuine interest and, perhaps, a shred of respect.
"A wooden sword… a bokken," she observed, her voice now a little less musical and a little more analytical. "And you blocked my Mugetsu technique with it. Fascinating."
[Erza is still standing paralysed behind you. Her vital signs indicate a spike in adrenaline and confusion,] Eos informed, ever so helpful.
(I know, Eos. I can feel her hesitation.)
"Erza," I said, without turning, without taking my eyes off Ikaruga. "Go. Now. Don't make me repeat myself. We don't have time for this."
I heard her hesitate behind me. I could feel the conflict within her, the desire to fight by my side, not to leave me behind, against the urgent and overwhelming need to reach Jellal and end this madness.
"…Don't take too long, Azra'il," she said finally, her voice laden with a concern I found entirely unnecessary but, secretly, a little… pleasant.
And then she was running, her heavy armoured footsteps echoing on the polished wood, passing by us like a scarlet hurricane, through the torii gates until she finally disappeared into the darkness that existed beyond the shrine.
With a quick movement, Ikaruga made a move to intercept her.
But the tip of my Jian, with a silent whisper in the air, was already touching her neck before she could even take the first step.
"I said," I murmured, my voice now devoid of any emotion, as cold as stone, "that your opponent, your one and only opponent, is me."
Her green eyes met mine. No longer with amusement. But with a cold, professional assessment.
"…You are fast, little wolf," she admitted, with a reluctant respect.
"You have seen absolutely nothing yet, cherry blossom."
The silence that followed our brief exchange of pleasantries was the kind that precedes the most violent of storms.
With a deliberate slowness, Ikaruga took three steps back, her katana now out of its scabbard, assuming a guard position that I recognised from ancient scrolls: low, relaxed, almost careless, the tip of the blade pointing at the floor. The fundamental stance of Mugetsu-Ryu, the sword style that aims to cut the very vacuum, without the need for touch. A school of swordsmanship based on supernatural speed, absolute precision, and an intent to cut that transcended steel.
"Before we begin this dance, little wolf," she said, her voice again calm, almost formal, "may I know your full name? It is a matter of courtesy and respect between swordswomen, before a deadly duel."
"Azra'il Weiss."
"Azra'il Weiss…" she savoured the words on her tongue, like a sommelier tasting a rare and exotic wine. "A foreign name, no doubt. From what lands do you hail, with such a surprising skill?"
"From very, very far from here."
[She is trying to read you. Assessing every micro-expression, every movement, every breath. Searching for weaknesses in your posture and in your mind.]
(Let her search. She won't find anything I don't want her to find.)
"And that sword of yours," Ikaruga continued, her serpent's eyes now fixed on my simple and unpretentious Jian. "Is it made of… oak? No. It is something older. Denser. And the way you hold it… it is not a style of Fiore. Nor of any other nation I know on the continent. It is… different."
"You talk too much, Ikaruga."
A slow, confident smile returned to her lips.
"Perhaps. But a true swordswoman, my dear Azra'il, can learn far more by observing and conversing with her opponent before the first blow than in a dozen exchanges of blades." She tilted her head, like a curious bird. "You… you have trained for a very, very long time, have you not? From your bearing, from your calm… I would say for decades, at the very least. Which is… impossible, considering your appearance."
(Oh, my dear. If only you knew.) (Millennia, actually. But who's really counting the centuries, right?)
"Are you going to continue talking and trying to guess my age," I asked, twirling my Jian once, with a quick, fluid flick of my wrist, the sound of the wood cutting the air like a whip, "or are we finally going to fight?"
Ikaruga's green eyes shone with a genuine anticipation and a reluctant respect.
"As you wish."
And then, she disappeared.
No, she didn't really disappear. She moved. She moved so fast that a normal human eye, and even that of an average mage, wouldn't have been able to even follow. A blur of pink and red, the blade of her katana cutting through the air in a deadly silence, in a descending diagonal trajectory aimed at my left shoulder.
With a minimal, almost imperceptible movement, I tilted my head three centimetres to the right. Just enough.
The silver blade passed so close it cut a few loose strands of my hair, which floated slowly to the floor.
"Oh?" Ikaruga's voice, now surprised, came from behind me. She had moved there in an instant. "You actually dodged."
"No. You missed your target," I corrected, without turning around.
Another attack. Horizontal, this time, from the side, aiming for my waist. A treacherous and fast blow. But I heard it. I felt it. With my eyes still facing forward, I raised my Jian, blocking the lethal blow just by the sound of the blade cutting through the air. The impact of the wood against the steel reverberated up my arm. She was strong, I had to admit. Very strong for an ordinary mortal.
[Combat analysis. Opponent's estimated speed: 847 kilometres per hour at her peak acceleration. Impact force registered on the last blow: 3.2 metric tons. She is just testing your reflexes and your strength, Azra'il.]
(I know, Eos. And honestly, I'm allowing myself a little fun. Let her test.)
"Interesting," Ikaruga murmured, suddenly reappearing in front of me, her face now without the smug smile, replaced by an expression of pure and calculating curiosity. "You blocked my attack with your back turned. Just by the sound of the cut in the air?"
"Not just by the sound. By your intent."
A small pause between us, filled only by the silent fall of the magical petals.
"…Explain yourself."
And I, for the first time in that duel, truly smiled.
"No."
And, this time, it was I who attacked.
My Jian cut through the air in a simple, elegant, almost lazy arc. No flourishes. No elaborate and flashy techniques. Just a straight line, a pure cut, aimed directly at her centre of mass. An attack so simple it was almost insulting.
Ikaruga, as I expected, blocked the blow with a disdainful ease. Of course she blocked it. That was exactly what I wanted her to do.
And in that exact, fleeting moment when our blades touched, in the clang of steel against wood, I saw it.
The flaw.
Her right elbow, upon receiving the impact, was half a centimetre higher than it should have been. A tiny, almost imperceptible, completely unconscious compensation for the fact that she was a natural left-hander fighting with the style of a right-hander. A flaw that the vast majority of opponents, even the most experienced, would never notice in a thousand years of combat.
But I was not the vast majority. I was the exception.
With a flick of my wrist that was pure fluidity and millennia of practice, my Jian slid along the blade of her katana, changing its angle at the last, impossible millisecond. And the ancient wooden tip of my sword touched, gently, almost like a caress, the pale skin of her neck, for the second time that night.
And Ikaruga froze. Completely.
"…How?" she asked, her voice a whisper of pure and absolute disbelief.
"Your elbow," I said simply, retracting my sword. "Was too high."
"That's… that's impossible. No one, not even Jellal-sama, can see such a small opening in my—"
"I saw it."
With a deliberate movement, I retreated, giving her space, offering her the chance to recover. Not because I needed distance. But because I wanted, genuinely wanted, to see what she would do next. The fun was just beginning.
[Your vital signs are slightly elevated, Azra'il. Heart rate above average for a low-effort combat such as this. Should I infer that you are… enjoying the situation?]
(It's been a very, very long time since I've found someone who is truly worth fighting, Eos. Someone who understands the sword.)
[Definition of "worth fighting": highly subjective. Based on my power analyses, she clearly does not pose a real threat to you, even with your seals active.]
(It's not about the threat, my dear and pragmatic AI. It's about the art. About the dance.)
[…Sometimes, Azra'il, I simply do not understand your logic.]
(I know, Eos. It's part of my irresistible charm.)
Ikaruga, for her part, was watching me with completely new eyes now. The initial arrogance had dissipated, been completely swept away, replaced by something much deeper. More… cautious.
"That style of yours," she said slowly, her voice low and thoughtful. "I have never, in all my life of training, seen anything like it. You don't directly attack your opponent, their defence. You attack…"
"The flaw," I completed, with a small smile. "The error. The hesitation. The moment of imperfection that exists in every movement, in every breath, no matter how perfect it may seem to the eyes of others."
"That is…"
"The Philosophy of Dugu's Nine Lonely Swords," I said, and the words, spoken for the first time in centuries, carried the dusty weight of forgotten ages. "A concept created by a man who, in his long and lonely life, never lost a single duel. He did not seek to create the perfect attack. He simply realised that there was not, and never will be, a truly perfect movement. Only movements that hide their own inevitable imperfections better than others. And if you, with your eyes and your mind, could see, could predict, all these tiny imperfections…"
"…You would, theoretically, become invincible," Ikaruga completed, her green eyes wide with a sudden and frightened understanding.
"Invincible is too strong a word, even for me." I twirled my Jian once more, a casual gesture that seemed out of place. "But let's just say that, indeed, it's been a very, very long time since anyone has actually managed to touch me with a blade in a serious duel."
[Technically inaccurate and a bare-faced lie, Azra'il. Erza hit you with a sword three times during last month's training session.]
(Eos. The dramatic moment. Learn to read the room. For the gods' sake.)
[…Understood. Temporarily silencing factual records for a better dramatic effect.]
(Thank you.)
With a deliberate slowness, Ikaruga closed her eyes for a moment. And when she opened them again, something in her aura had changed. Her posture was different now, lower, more centred. The katana, previously held with a single hand, was now wielded firmly with both.
"So that's how it's going to be," she said, and her voice, which before had been musical and melodic, had lost all its artistic quality. It was pure steel now. Cold, sharp, and deadly. "You are not an ordinary swordswoman, are you? You are something more. Something… ancient."
"You don't know the half of it, cherry blossom."
"Then show me." And, to my surprise, she assumed a position I didn't recognise, something that didn't belong to any traditional school, something of her own, something she had developed. The pinnacle of Mugetsu-Ryu. "Show me, Azra'il Weiss, what years of practice and arrogance can do. And I, in return, will show you that the fragile and ephemeral cherry blossom can, in fact, cut as deeply and as lethally as any ancient and forgotten blade."
And the cherry blossom petals around her, which before had been falling gently, began to spin in a furious whirlwind.
No, they were no longer just petals. They were fragments of magical energy. And I could feel, with a frightening clarity, that each one of them was sharp enough to cut stone.
(Ah, now then. Now the game is over.)
"Finally," I murmured, feeling that ancient flame, that primal joy of combat, awaken in the bottom of my chest for the first time in a very, very long time. "Let's begin for real."
Ikaruga's first real blow, born of her true and total intent to kill, was something genuinely worthy of admiration.
"Yasha Senku! (Flash of the Night Demon!)"
Her katana cut through the air in a deadly silence, but the cut was not limited to the physical reach of the blade. It continued, invisible, a wave of pure cutting energy that extended for more than five metres beyond the tip of the sword, like a blade of vacuum. The very air, reality itself, seemed to split for an instant, creating a shining and distorted fissure that advanced towards me with a frightening speed.
To cut without touching. The fundamental principle of Mugetsu-Ryu. And she had mastered it.
But instead of dodging, I simply advanced.
My Jian moved in a simple, elegant, upward arc, meeting the invisible energy wave not with brute force, but with surgical precision. Meeting it at its weakest point, the central nexus, the exact point where the two halves of the cut met and balanced. The ancient wood of my sword touched the pure cutting energy and…
Simply split it.
The two halves of the attack, now separated and unbalanced, passed harmlessly by my side, colliding with the wooden pillars of the shrine behind me and destroying them in a shower of splinters.
"You… you cut my cut," Ikaruga said, her voice now laden with a genuine admiration and an almost childish disbelief. "With a wooden sword."
"Your technique is, indeed, impressive," I admitted, with a sincerity I rarely granted. "To extend the intent and energy of the blade beyond the physical reach of the steel… there are few sword styles that can achieve such a feat. But, my dear, any and every extension of energy, however powerful it may be, has a point of origin, a nexus. And every point of origin, every nexus…"
"…Is, by definition, a flaw. A weakness," she completed, the understanding beginning to dawn in her eyes.
"You really do learn fast. I'm impressed."
"I am, or at least was, the best swordswoman of my generation." There was a note of challenge and pride in her voice.
"Perhaps. Just of your generation." My provocation was subtle, but sharp.
And her eyes narrowed in response.
"Garuda-en! (Flames of Garuda!)"
This time, she was smarter. She didn't attack head-on, in a predictable straight line. Her katana danced in her hands like an artist's brush, creating a series of quick and fluid cuts in the shape of a fan that spread through the air like the flaming wings of a mythical bird. Five waves of cutting energy, each coming from a slightly different angle, converging on my centre.
(Interesting. She's trying to overwhelm me.)
So, I moved.
To an outside observer, if there were any, it would probably have looked as if I had simply disappeared from one point and reappeared, calmly, on the other side of her deadly attacks. But what really happened, in that single, fleeting instant, was something far more complex, far more precise. I did not dodge. I did not disappear. I simply walked between the cuts. With calm and measured steps, my Jian moving with an almost lazy economy of motion, deflecting and redirecting each of the five energy waves at the last possible millisecond, finding and exploiting the tiny flaws in trajectory in each one, making them pass harmlessly by me.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Five.
And when I stopped, I was already less than a metre away from Ikaruga, my simple wooden sword now pointed, calmly, at her heart.
"…Impossible," she whispered, her pale face now even paler, her breath caught in her throat.
"Nothing is truly impossible, Ikaruga," I replied, with an almost divine calm. "Just very and incredibly difficult."
[Combat time elapsed so far: 4 minutes and 23 seconds. According to my projections, Erza should already be approaching Jellal's location,] Eos informed, ever so mindful of the clock.
(I know, Eos. Don't worry.)
[You could have finished this combat on the first blow. And yet, you are prolonging it. Why?]
(Because, my dear and impatient Eos, it has been exactly 387 lives since I last fought against someone who truly understood the soul of the sword.)
A small pause. A split second of silence in my mind.
[…I see. You are, in your strange and complex way, being… nostalgic.]
(It's not nostalgia, Eos. It's… respect. This woman, however misguided her paths may be, has dedicated her entire life to a single and noble art. She may be an assassin. A criminal. Someone whom, by all logic, I should simply eliminate from the face of the earth and move on without a second thought. But, above all that, she is also a swordswoman. A true and dedicated swordswoman. And true swordswomen, even those on the wrong side of history… they deserve, at the very least, a real fight.)
[That is surprisingly, and anomalously, sentimental coming from you, Azra'il.]
(I have my rare and usually inconvenient moments of sentimentalism.)
With a heavy, panting breath, Ikaruga retreated, putting more distance between us. And I let her go. There were small cuts on her elaborate kimono now. Cuts that hadn't been there before. Not deep, of course. Just superficial, almost artistic. Subtle marks I had left on purpose on her attire during my brief passage between her attacks, like a painter leaving his signature. Little reminders of how many, many times I could have killed her in the last few seconds, if that had been my real and only intention.
"You… you are just playing with me," she said, and it was not a question. It was a bitter and humiliating realisation.
"No, Ikaruga. Not at all. I am, in fact, honouring you."
"Honouring me? Mocking my art, humiliating me, you call that honour?"
"You are good, Ikaruga. Genuinely good. Your mastery of Mugetsu-Ryu is refined, almost perfect. Your speed is impressive, even by my standards. And your determination, your faith in your own blade, is admirable." With a deliberate gesture, I lowered my Jian slightly, in a sign of respect that I showed to few. "But you, my dear, have spent your entire life perfecting a single technique, following a single path, a single philosophy. And that, as strong as it has made you, has also made you… predictable."
"Predictable?!" the word came out as an offended snarl.
"Yes. Predictable. Your every cut, however fast and powerful it may be, follows the exact same pattern. The energy flows from your centre outwards, always in the exact same progression. The flaws, though tiny, are always the same, in the same places. I could, from now on, block all your future attacks with my eyes closed, just by feeling the rhythm of your breathing and the intent in your heart."
She gritted her teeth, her hand tightening on the hilt of her katana so hard that her knuckles turned white.
"So this is it? This is the end? You're going to defeat me with words, with condescension?"
"No, Ikaruga. Not with words. I'm going to defeat you with this."
And, with a calm that was almost frightening, I closed my eyes.
And I let my own, ancient memories come to the surface.
A high mountain, covered in clouds and eternal snow. The air so thin, so pure, that ordinary mortals couldn't even breathe. Around me, seven figures. The Seven Immortal Sword Sages of the Celestial Mountain. Each of them had lived for centuries, millennia. Each of them was the supreme and undisputed master of an ancient and lethal martial art. And each of them, at that moment, wanted my head on a platter.
"The heretic must die today," their leader, an old man with a white beard that reached the floor and a sword that shone with a pure celestial energy, had said. "She has defied the laws of heaven and earth. And for that, she will pay with her life."
I, in that life, did not answer with words.
I just raised my Jian, the exact same wooden Jian that I was holding now, thousands of years younger back then but just as faithful, and I let my mind, my heart, empty completely, until they became a calm and tranquil mirror.
"You seven want to kill me?" I, or rather, that version of me, had asked with an almost divine calm. "Then come. And come all at once. I do not have all day."
And they, in their immortal arrogance, came.
And when the dust of battle finally settled, seven bodies of immortals lay silently on the immaculate mountain snow. And I, with my simple wooden sword, was standing, untouched, without a single scratch.
"The perfect form," I had murmured to the silent mountain and to the indifferent heavens, "is, in the end, to have no form at all."
When I finally opened my eyes, here and now, in the Tower of Heaven, something in me had changed.
I was no longer just standing in the middle of that artificial shrine. I was… radiating. An invisible but palpable energy flowed around me, manifesting as small petals of pure light, each one containing the ethereal fragment of an invisible blade.
Sword Intent. Jian Yi. The physical, almost spiritual, manifestation of a swordswoman's indomitable will and soul.
"What… what the devil is that?" Ikaruga, for the first time, took an instinctive step back, her green eyes wide with a mixture of admiration, confusion, and a genuine, primitive fear.
"You asked me, a few minutes ago, what my fighting style was," I said, and my voice, now, carried the echoes of other voices, of other ages, of other lives. "The Philosophy of Dugu's Nine Lonely Swords is my defence. But this…"
The petals of light multiplied, spinning in a slow and hypnotic whirlwind around me, filling the air of the room with a soft light and a crushing pressure.
"…This is Qing Lian Jian Yi. The Sword Intent of the Blue Lotus."
"Sword… Intent?" she repeated the word, as if it were an alien concept. And for this world, it probably was.
"When you, Ikaruga, dedicate your existence to a single and noble art," I explained, with the calm of a teacher to her most promising student, "it eventually ceases to be just a technique, a set of movements. It becomes a part of your soul, of your very being. Every blow I have ever delivered, every life I have ever taken, every duel I have ever fought, every victory, every defeat… they all exist here, now, in this very moment, manifested as pure intent, as the purest and most crystalline form of the sword."
With a slow movement, I raised my simple Jian.
And the thousands of petals of light, like moths drawn to a flame, instantly converged on the wooden blade, covering it, transforming it into something that shone like a newborn star.
"You, Ikaruga, are an admirable swordswoman. Perhaps the best of your generation, as you said. But you, in your short and limited existence, have dedicated only a single life to this art. I… I have dedicated hundreds."
"That… that is completely impossible! No one lives for that long!" she stammered, a cold sweat running down her forehead.
I smiled, a smile that was neither cruel nor smug. It was just… ancient.
"Nothing, my dear cherry blossom, is truly impossible. Just incredibly improbable."
Ikaruga's last, desperate attack was, I must admit, of a tragic and impressive beauty.
"GARUDA-EN!!! (Flaming Dance of Garuda!)"
With a cry of fury and determination, her katana exploded into flames, not ordinary fire, by any means, but pure sword energy, concentrated and compressed to the point of spontaneous combustion. And she advanced on me with a speed that would have been, to any normal person, completely invisible and indefensible. The flaming blade cut through the air in hypnotic and deadly spirals, leaving trails of destruction and heat wherever it passed.
It was, without a shadow of a doubt, the most powerful attack and the final technique of the entire Mugetsu-Ryu school. And it was, in its destructive fury, artistically… beautiful.
I met her halfway.
And my Jian, now shining with the light of a thousand battles, moved. Just once.
One cut. Simple. Clean. No flourishes. No elaborate techniques or pompous names.
Just the purest, simplest, and therefore, the most perfect form of the cut, executed with a perfection that transcended time and space.
And the petals of light, the thousands of sword intents that surrounded me, followed the perfect trajectory of my blade, amplifying the single, simple blow, transforming one cut into a thousand simultaneous cuts.
Ikaruga's Flaming Dance of Garuda was, simply, undone. Erased. Deconstructed.
Her katana flew from her hands with a metallic clang.
And she, with her eyes wide in pure and absolute disbelief, fell to her knees on the polished wooden floor, with a single, shallow, and precise cut across her beautiful kimono, from her right shoulder to her left hip.
A shallow cut. Deliberately shallow. My way of ending the duel.
The silence that followed that instant was absolute. The magical cherry blossom petals, now without Ikaruga's control, continued to fall gently around us, in a poetic and silent irony. And Ikaruga, the great leader of the Trinity Raven, was kneeling, breathing heavily, her green eyes fixed on her own empty, trembling, and useless hands.
"…Why?" she asked finally, her voice a broken, hoarse, almost inaudible whisper.
"Why what?"
"Why… why didn't you kill me?" She slowly raised her eyes to me, and there was something irremediably broken in them. Humiliation. Confusion. Disbelief. "I felt it. I saw it. You… you could have cut me in half with that single, simple blow. Why did you hold back?"
With a deliberate and final gesture, I sheathed my Jian in its imaginary scabbard, officially signalling that the fight, for me, had been over a long time ago.
"Because you, Ikaruga, are a swordswoman."
"I… I am an assassin. A criminal. I have killed dozens of innocent people for money, without the slightest remorse."
"I know. I felt it in your blade. And normally, that would be more than enough reason for me not to show the slightest shadow of mercy." I walked slowly to the spot where her katana had fallen on the polished floor and picked it up carefully, feeling the balance of the blade. A good sword. "But today, you gave me something I haven't had in a long time."
"…What? The pleasure of victory?" her voice was full of a palpable bitterness.
"No. A real duel." I walked back to her, kneeling and defeated, and held out her katana, offering it back to her, with the hilt facing her. "You didn't fight for money today, Ikaruga. Nor for blind loyalty to your master. You, in the end, fought for your art. For your honour as a swordswoman. And that… that, my dear, will always deserve my respect."
She looked at her own sword in my hands. Then, slowly, at me, her eyes full of a confusion that bordered on pain.
"You… you are a very strange person, Azra'il Weiss."
"You are not the first person to tell me that. And you certainly won't be the last."
[Confirmed. The record of people who consider you "strange" is extensive and spans multiple universes.]
(Thank you for the contribution, Eos. Very helpful.)
Slowly, with a hesitation that betrayed the whirlwind of emotions within her, Ikaruga finally took her katana back, her fingers trembling as she touched the familiar hilt.
"If… if I had won this duel," she said, her voice still low, "I would have killed you without the slightest hesitation."
"I know."
"And yet, you spared me."
"And yet." I turned my back to her and began to walk towards the torii gates that marked the exit of that strange and beautiful shrine. "That is the way of the sword, Ikaruga. It is a lonely and complicated path. Sometimes you kill. Sometimes you spare. And sometimes, on rare and precious occasions… you simply recognise that your opponent deserved a much more honourable and meaningful death than the one you could give them in a simple battle."
"…That makes no sense."
"It makes perfect sense to me."
I stopped at the first gate, looking back over my shoulder one last time.
"Leave this tower, Ikaruga," I said, with a tone that was not an order, but a piece of advice. "The Etherion, the Magic Council's weapon, will hit this place soon. And it would be a real waste if a swordswoman of your calibre were to die in such a stupid and impersonal way, out of sheer loyalty to a mad and manipulative man like Jellal."
Ikaruga did not answer. She just remained there, kneeling, holding her sword, lost in her own thoughts.
But just as I was about to disappear into the darkness that existed beyond the gates, I heard her voice one last time, clearer and stronger than before:
"…What is your true name, swordswoman?"
I smiled at the darkness before me, a genuine and perhaps slightly melancholic smile.
"There are no true names. My name is Azra'il Weiss. Just that." I paused briefly. "But a long, long time ago… in a land far, far away… they called me Bái Lián Jiàn Xiān. The Immortal of the White Lotus Sword. Or, for the more poetic, the Thousand-Bladed Lotus."
And then I was running, the sound of my footsteps muffled by the sound of the still-falling cherry blossom petals, leaving the silent shrine and its confused guardian behind. My thoughts, now, were entirely focused on Erza.
[Estimated time to Erza's last known position: 2 minutes, if we maintain the current speed.]
(Then I'd better run much faster, Eos.)
[She is, most likely, facing Jellal alone at this very moment.]
(I know that. And that's exactly why I'm running.)
[You are, Azra'il… you are worried about her.]
A small silence. A moment of pure and honest vulnerability.
(…)
[Azra'il? Are you still there?]
(I am terrified, Eos. For the first time in centuries, I am genuinely and completely terrified.)
[…Then run. And run fast.]
And I ran. I ran as if my own life depended on it. Because, in some strange way, perhaps it did.
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💬 Author's Notes
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Okay, I need to admit something to you all… I missed it 😔
I REALLY missed those more Wuxia/Xianxia elements of Azra'il. After so much classic Fairy Tail-style magical brawling (shouting, explosions, friendship winning everything 🫣), I felt it was time to bring her back to her roots. That more "art of the sword" thing, reading movement, intent, philosophy… basically Azra'il being her true self.
And let's be honest: putting that against someone like Ikaruga was PERFECT for it.
By the way, I want to know from you all, what did you think of Ikaruga here?
Because in the canon, the one who faced her was Erza… and well… that turned into a festival of armours being destroyed (RIP Titania's wardrobe 😔✊). So I wanted to change the dynamic a bit and explore more of the character's technical side, her style, the Mugetsu-Ryu, and how that would clash with someone completely outside the curve like Azra'il.
Did you enjoy this change? Do you prefer this kind of more technical and philosophical duel, or do you like the standard brawl more?
Seriously, tell me everything. I love reading your theories, opinions, and even your freak-outs; that's what gives me ideas to keep writing and making these fights more and more absurd 👀