April 23rd, 2012, with Kiba, Afternoon.
The sharp clang of metal on metal echoed across the training ground, a stark counterpoint to the earlier sounds of shattering blades.
This time, however, the sword held. Kiba, his body screaming in protest, his muscles trembling with exhaustion, managed to parry a lateral strike from the legendary Gungnir, wielded with effortless precision by Makoto.
The force of the impact still reverberated up his arm, but the newly forged blade in his hand—a bastard sword shimmering with a faint, crystalline light—remained intact.
The victory was short-lived. A wave of supernatural cold, a remnant of the Bufu spell Odin had enchanted upon the spear, flashed from the point of contact.
It wasn't a direct attack, but a lingering aura that instantly coated Kiba's glove in a layer of rime ice, the bitter cold searing his skin. With a pained hiss, he was forced to release his grip, the sword clattering to the ground as he shook his frozen hand.
"Kiba, we should stop. You're pushing yourself too far," Makoto said, his voice calm but firm. He lowered Gungnir, his blue eyes reflecting a mixture of concern and wariness.
The Omnipotent Orb glowed softly in the non-space it occupied, having passively negated every offensive maneuver Kiba had attempted.
"No," the blonde knight gasped, his chest heaving. Sweat dripped from his chin, and his uniform was soaked through. "Please, Senpai. I'm almost there. I can feel it. I almost understand how to make it work."
He clenched his fist, the cold already receding from his fiery determination, and summoned another sword. This one was similar to the last, but the hilt was slightly more ergonomic, the ice crystals along the blade arranged in a more efficient pattern.
This had been the pattern for the last hour. Each sword Kiba created was a new iteration, a prototype built upon the foundation of his original Flame Delete. Every parry, every dodge, every failed attack was a data point.
He was reverse-engineering the concept of "absolute cold" not through magic theory, but through brutal, practical application, using Gungnir's divine chill as his benchmark and Makoto's impervious defense as his anvil.
"Winter's Outburst!" Kiba shouted, his voice raw. He thrust his right arm forward, and a miniature, concentrated blizzard swirled into existence around it, howling with contained power.
The snow and ice coalesced, compacted, and then dissolved, leaving in its wake a new sword. This one was different. It was a bastard sword, yes, but its design was more refined, more lethal.
The grip was fashioned from a strange, light-blue wood with a hexagonal pattern, resembling polished porcelain or ancient glacial ice.
The pommel and guard were intricately crafted into the shape of a perfect, eight-pointed snowflake. The blade itself was forged from a pristine, white steel, and embedded along its length were naturally formed ice crystals that seemed to drink the light from the air.
Most importantly, etched into the center of the snowflake guard was a single, glowing rune—the same rune that had been on Gungnir's shaft.
Its meaning was simple, direct, and perfectly encapsulated the sword's purpose: Frost.
'Clever boy,' Odin's voice grumbled in Makoto's mind, a note of genuine approval beneath the gruff tone. 'He has actually managed to synthesize a concept. He did not copy it, he adapted it to suit himself.'
'I told you he would surprise us,' Yoshitsune replied, his mental voice carrying a hint of pride. 'He learns not just with his mind, but with his body and spirit.'
Emboldened, Kiba lunged. He didn't aim for Makoto directly. Instead, he swung the Winter's Outburst in a wide arc, and from its edge, a concentrated burst of frigid air, sharp as a razor, shot towards Makoto.
The Omnipotent Orb flared, and the ice vaporized into a harmless mist before it could get within a foot of its target. Undeterred, Kiba used the momentum of his swing to leap back, creating distance. Then, with a powerful, ascending cut, he sent another, larger wave of ice crashing forward.
Again, the Orb activated, disintegrating the attack effortlessly.
Kiba gritted his teeth, his frustration mounting. He was so focused on breaking through, on proving his newfound strength, that he failed to grasp the fundamental nature of the Orb's power.
It wasn't a matter of force or technique; it was an absolute law. He readied himself for another charge, his grip tightening on the hilt of the Winter's Outburst, his body coiling like a spring.
'He is overexerting himself. His form is slipping. End this, Universe,' Yoshitsune advised, his tone shifting from pride to concern.
'I agree,' Makoto thought back.
As Kiba closed the distance, Makoto moved to disarm him with a simple, precise thrust of Gungnir aimed at the sword's blade. But Kiba, his instincts honed to a razor's edge by hours of relentless combat, saw the movement.
He surprised Makoto by springing backward at the last second, simultaneously switching the Winter's Outburst to his left hand in a fluid, ambidextrous motion.
'It seems the blonde has plenty of fighting spirit still left in him,' Yoshitsune commented, a renewed interest in his voice. 'It would be disrespectful to not acknowledge it.'
'Nevertheless, finish this, Universe,' Odin interjected, his voice taking on a urgent edge. 'Gungnir is becoming unstable.'
'Unstable? What do you mean—' Makoto began to ask, but Kiba gave him no time.
"Sword Birth!" Kiba shouted, not to create a single weapon, but a multitude. Thousands of minuscule, needle-like daggers materialized in the air between them, forming a dense, shimmering cloud. They weren't designed to pierce or maim; their purpose was purely tactical—to obscure vision and create an opening.
'Ingenious,' Makoto realized. 'He created swords so small, so insignificant in their individual threat, that the omnipotent orb doesn't register them as a direct danger. He's using the rules of my own defense against me.'
From within the cloud of glittering steel, Kiba emerged like a phantom. He held the Winter's Outburst thrust forward, his body a straight line, the point of the sword aimed at Makoto's chest like a drill seeking its target.
It was then that the instability Odin warned of manifested. A new, chaotic presence brushed against Makoto's mind, a voice that was sly, manic, and dripping with malicious amusement.
'Universe! I see you need the help of little old Loki! Let me help! Oh, can I tell you a joke? It starts with us KILLING EVERYTHING IN SIGHT AND ENDS WITH A WORLD DROWNED IN BLOOD AND LAUGHTER! Isn't it hilarious?'
The voice was a psychic assault, a wave of pure, unadulterated chaos that threatened to shatter his concentration. Reacting on instinct, Makoto didn't block the attack. He discarded it. He threw Gungnir aside, the cursed spear clattering away across the grass, its malevolent influence instantly fading.
The moment the spear left his hand, Makoto turned his full attention back to Kiba. The cloud of tiny daggers was dissipating, and the knight was almost upon him.
With the same effortless motion he had used days before, Makoto sidestepped the thrust, reached out, and grabbed Kiba by the collar of his uniform.
He used the boy's own momentum, pulling him forward and down, sending him sprawling onto the grass. The Winter's Outburst, its point inches from Makoto's chest, was once again annihilated by the omnipotent orb in a silent flash of light.
'Was that what you meant, Odin?' Makoto asked, his mental voice slightly shaken by the God of Mischief's sudden and violent intrusion.
'Yes,' the All-Father replied grimly. 'Long ago, Loki placed a curse upon Gungnir. When it is used too freely, or its wielder's resolve wavers, it calls to him. It is a price for its power.'
On the ground, Kiba didn't immediately get up. He lay there for a second, catching his breath, before he slammed a fist into the turf in a burst of raw frustration. "I didn't manage to even scratch you, Senpai... I thought... I thought all this training had given me results, but... it was all useless. I'm still too weak."
"Don't say that," Makoto said, kneeling beside him, his voice gentle. "Don't downplay what you just did. It's been partially my fault, too. I was using the Omnipotent Orb. As long as it's active, you can't do anything to me at all. It wasn't a test of your strength against mine; it was a test of your creativity against an absolute defense. I'm sorry... that wasn't fair to you."
Kiba slowly pushed himself up onto his elbows, looking at Makoto with wide eyes. "Omnipotent Orb? That's why... that's why every one of my attacks just... vanished?"
The revelation wasn't disheartening; it was liberating. A slow smile spread across his face, replacing the look of defeat.
"Thanks, Senpai. If you used that, it means you were taking me seriously. You weren't holding back. You were giving me a real challenge. I'm thankful, really."
"Rest now, blonde," a new voice said. Yoshitsune materialized beside them, his armored form a pillar of stoic authority. "You have earned it. Both I and the All-Father were pleasantly surprised by your performance. You have taken the first true step beyond the limits you set for yourself."
"Thank you, Master!" Kiba shouted, scrambling to his feet and offering a deep, formal bow. As he bowed his head, a few traitorous tears escaped his clenched eyes, tracing clean lines through the sweat and grime on his face.
'I am the blade of the President,' he declared to himself, the thought a burning oath in his heart. 'I won't be defeated so easily anymore! I won't be a burden!'
The memories flashed before his mind's eye: the near-fatal encounter with the oni, Kazan Ishikikawa; the countless times he had felt the limits of his own power.
But now, he had a chance. A chance to prove himself worthy—not just to Rias, but to everyone.
'I will make all of them proud!' The faces of his friends in the Occult Research Club—Akeno, Koneko, Irumi—flashed in his mind. 'Not only the President. Not only the Club!'
Then, deeper and more painful, came the other faces. The ghosts that always lived just beneath the surface of his calm demeanor. 'They, too, will be proud of me! All of them live inside me...'
His mind was dragged back, against his will, to a sterile, cold place. To the Holy Sword Project of the Church. To the other children, the other test subjects, his friends, who had not been as lucky as him.
Who had broken, who had been discarded, who had died screaming in agony as their bodies rejected the holy swords they were forced to bear. Their cries, their fading hopes, their stolen futures—it was all a part of him, a scar on his soul that had never truly healed.
'...and when the time comes,' he vowed, his internal voice as cold and sharp as the final iteration of the Winter's Outburst, 'I will avenge them.'