The forge fire dimmed as the fourth blade cooled, its edge glowing faintly with otherworldly light. Asura exhaled, sweat dripping from his brow, his grin sharp with satisfaction.
"three down," he whispered. "three to go."
He reached for the newest katana, but his hand hesitated. The Nightfang, resting nearby, pulsed faintly in the dark. Its black surface shimmered as if ink rippled beneath it.
Asura frowned. "…What?"
A whisper slithered into his mind, soft as silk, sharp as glass.
"Why make more… when you already have me? Six blades are nothing. One true blade is enough. Feed me… and I will make you stronger than all of them combined."
His grip tightened on the hilt of the new sword. His golden eyes flicked toward the Nightfang, glowing faintly in the shadows.
"Shut up," he muttered under his breath.
Selene's voice cut through the silence. "Young master? Did you say something?"
He forced a grin, shaking his head. "Nah. Just… talking to myself."
She studied him for a moment, her violet eyes narrowing, before turning back to clean the tools.
Asura exhaled slowly, his heart pounding. He slid the new blade into its sheath, but his gaze lingered on the Nightfang.
It had never whispered that clearly before.
✦ The Fourth Forging – The Silent Blade
The forge hissed as Asura laid out the next ore—
Moonsteel, a pale silver metal mined only under eclipses, cold to the touch and infamous among smiths for one trait:
It did not sing when struck.
Asura gripped the hammer anyway. "Fourth," he muttered. "Let's see what you become."
He heated the ore until it glowed white, but even then it made no sound. No crack. No spark. No scream of metal resisting its fate. Every strike fell into a dead, suffocating silence that made the hair on Selene's arms stand up.
Selene stepped closer, unease flickering across her violet eyes. "Young master… I don't like this one."
Asura didn't answer. He was staring too hard—drawn in by the metal's impossible stillness. Even the flames bent away from it, as if the blade-to-be swallowed heat as easily as sound.
His system chimed softly:
[Unique Material Detected: Moonsteel – Null-Mana Class]
[Properties: Cancels external mana, negates enchantments.]
Asura grinned. "A blade that erases magic… Perfect."
He hammered faster. Harder. Sparks didn't fly—they vanished. Mana didn't flare—it died on contact. Even the Nightfang, resting on the nearby rack, dimmed slightly, its violet glow suppressed by the Moonsteel's quiet presence.
Selene's breath caught. "It's… silencing the curse."
That did it.
Asura's grin sharpened. "Then it'll silence everything."
The forging was fast—too fast. The metal bent willingly, shape forming as if eager to serve. When he quenched it, the steam didn't roar.
It vanished.
When the glowing haze cleared, the fourth blade lay across the anvil:
A katana of pale silver, edge gleaming with a soft white sheen, completely devoid of sound—even when he lifted it.
His system chimed again:
Weapon Forged – Nullfang Katana
Type: Anti-Mana / Silence Blade
Skill: Void Quietus – Cancels skills, spells, and monster abilities on contact
Passive: Silent Step – Suppresses wielder's sound and presence
Asura swung the blade once. The air didn't slash—it simply disappeared, leaving a brief vacuum ripple before sound returned.
Selene's eyes widened. "That blade… even shadows fear it."
Asura sheathed it with a sharp exhale. "Four."
The Nightfang pulsed in the corner—jealous, angry, suppressed.
And for the first time…
Asura felt it hate.
✦ The Fifth Forging – The Whisper Grows
The forge blazed low, shadows twisting on the stone walls. Sparks still drifted in the air, dying embers carried by the faint hiss of cooling metal. Asura crouched before the anvil, his chest rising and falling heavily, the new katana laid across his lap. Its polished surface gleamed with veins of red ore he had scavenged from the caves of the Fiend Peaks, a weapon born from fire and fury.
"Five," he muttered, voice hoarse but triumphant. His grin stretched sharp across his face. "Only one left. Six blades, Selene. The style will finally be real."
Behind him, Selene quietly poured water into a basin, her violet eyes softer than her expression. "You push too hard, young master. Even your grandfather would say enough for one day."
Asura smirked, rolling the new blade across his palms. "He'd also say strength doesn't wait for rest."
But then—
Thrum.
The sound was not from the forge. Not from the coals or the blade he held. It came from the Nightfang.
The cursed katana pulsed again, its blackened steel glowing faintly with veins of violet, as though shadows slithered inside its body.
Asura's smirk faltered. He swallowed hard. "…Not now."
The whisper slid into his mind like smoke through a crack.
"Why strain yourself with six?" the voice hissed, smooth, seductive. "Six paths lead to ruin. Six blades scatter your strength. You need only one. Me."
Asura's golden eyes widened. The voice was clearer now, no longer faint murmurs but words sharp as knives.
"Shut up," he whispered under his breath.
"I am eternal," the Nightfang continued, pressing deeper into his skull. "Forged from shadow older than the sun. The others are toys—fragile, temporary. Throw them aside. Wield me, and me alone, and I will carve kings and gods beneath your feet."
His grip on the new katana trembled. The promise felt too real, too tempting. Six blades… perhaps it was foolish. Maybe focusing all his strength into one could give him the decisive edge. Simpler. Absolute.
For a heartbeat, he saw it in his mind's eye: himself standing atop mountains of ash, the Nightfang alone in his hand, its cursed power swallowing the skies. His enemies begging, the world bowing.
The vision tightened his chest. His golden eyes glowed faintly in the dark. "…One blade to rule everything…"
"Asura."
His head snapped up. Selene stood in the doorway of the forge, violet eyes fixed on him. Her tone was soft but firm, laced with warning.
"You're pale." She stepped closer, her movements controlled but wary. "And your aura… it feels wrong. Like something else is breathing through you."
He blinked, jolting out of the vision. The Nightfang's whispers dulled, though its pulsing didn't stop. Quickly, he forced a grin, waving her off. "I-I'm fine. Just… tired. Five blades forged in a row—what do you expect?"
Selene didn't smile. She didn't look convinced. Her gaze slid toward the Nightfang, lingering on its darkened hilt. Then, wordlessly, her hand brushed against the dagger at her waist. Subtle. Instinctive. Protective.
Asura's grin stayed plastered on his face until she turned away, back to the basin. The second her eyes left him, his shoulders slumped, and the mask cracked. He looked back down at the Nightfang, its faint violet glow throbbing in time with his own heartbeat.
It's growing louder, he thought grimly.
And deep down, another thought followed, one he refused to say aloud.
And part of me wants to listen.
✦ The Sixth Forging – The Temptation of One
The forge blazed like a miniature sun. Every strike of Asura's hammer shook the chamber, sparks leaping like embers eager to flee the firestorm of his will. He was drenched in sweat, muscles aching from days of relentless forging, but his golden eyes burned brighter than the flames themselves.
Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
With each strike, the ore bled light—metal infused with rarest essence, scavenged from cursed lands and dragon hoards. It resisted him at first, screaming as steel does when it is broken and remade, but his hammer never faltered. He poured into it his rage, his ambition, his hunger to stand against titans.
Selene lingered beyond the circle of firelight, her silhouette tense, the violet glow of her eyes unblinking. She had seen him forge five blades already, each one born of sweat and stubbornness, each one pushing him past exhaustion. But tonight was different.
The air was thicker. Wrong, somehow. Mana curled unnaturally in the corners, shadows trembling as though afraid of what was coming into being. She wanted to speak, to stop him—but her voice caught in her throat.
Asura struck once more. The ore screamed… then surrendered.
The final blade emerged from the flames, polished to a sheen so perfect it reflected even the firelight in cold silver. Unlike the others, it was quiet, still, as though waiting.
Asura lifted it with both hands. His arms trembled not with weakness, but with triumph. His grin stretched wide, trembling with exhilaration.
"Six," he breathed. "Six blades… Six paths of destruction. The Six-Blade Demon Style is real."
The forge's flames dimmed.
The Nightfang pulsed.
"Fool."
The word didn't echo in the room—it resounded in his skull, sharp and absolute. His golden eyes widened, his breath catching. And then the whispers became a voice—low, venomous, and intimate.
"You think six will save you? Six is chaos. Six is division. Six is weakness. What king scatters his strength? What demon dilutes his bloodline?"
The katana that had slept on the wall behind him—the Nightfang, his third creation—glowed faintly, bleeding shadow into the firelight. The forge's warmth turned cold.
"Cast the others aside. You need no army of toys. Wield me, and me alone. I will end your enemies. I will sever Behemoths and gods alike. Why crawl when I can make you fly?"
Visions slammed into him.
He saw himself, grown taller, golden eyes glowing crimson with borrowed madness. The six blades lay shattered at his feet, fragments scattered like offerings. Only the Nightfang remained, unbroken, perfect. Violet fire spilled from its edge, rivers of shadow consuming battlefields. Armies bowed before him—not out of respect, but because the Nightfang's hunger demanded it.
He saw the Behemoth again, its roar shaking mountains. He raised the Nightfang once, and its titanic body split apart in silence, collapsing like wet paper. Victory absolute.
"One blade. One destiny. One throne."
The words slithered into his bones. His hands tightened around the sixth blade. For the first time, doubt cracked through his certainty. Six blades was madness. Six styles, six disciplines, six paths—it was scattered ambition. Wouldn't one perfect edge suffice? Wouldn't mastery of one, the ultimate one, be true power?
His chest heaved. His grin faltered. He could feel himself slipping toward it—toward the simplicity, the allure of surrender.
"…Asura."
The sound of his name cut through the fog.
He blinked. Selene was beside him now, closer than she should have been, her hand reaching out—not to strike, not to restrain, but to steady.
Her violet eyes were locked on his, sharp and unflinching, yet softened by something deeper. Concern. Fear.
"You're shaking," she whispered. Her palm pressed lightly against his chest, and her brows furrowed. "Your aura… it isn't yours. It's something else. It's eating at you."
The vision cracked. The battlefield of shadows dissolved. The whispers retreated, their velvet promises fading into silence. The forge roared back to life, its flames dancing normally again.
Asura gasped. His golden eyes cleared. He glanced down—his knuckles white around the sixth blade, his chest rising and falling like he had just fought a war.
"…Tch." He forced a crooked grin, his voice rough. "Guess I got a little too excited."
But Selene didn't smile. Her hand lingered on him for a moment longer before she drew it back, slowly, as though reluctant to let him go. "Excitement doesn't twist mana like that," she murmured. "Be careful, young master. Some blades are not meant to be wielded. And some powers are not meant to be chased."
Asura looked away, trying to laugh it off. "What, you're saying I should stop now? Give up?"
Selene's eyes softened, but her voice was firm. "No. I'm saying you should remember who you are. Not just a weapon. Not just power."
He said nothing.
The sixth blade glimmered in his hands, pure and silent. But when his gaze slid toward the Nightfang, sitting in its sheath against the wall, a faint chill spread along his skin.
The whispers were gone. For now.
But deep inside, he knew the truth.
The Nightfang wasn't finished with him.
And—though he hated admitting it—neither was he finished with it.