Mortenax Blade

His body is like springwood. His heart is like dead ash. Yet still, a craftsman's spark cling to his fingertips. Ancient grudges flare anew. He vows to send both himself and that God over to the other shore. This body torn asunder, yet holding fast through a thousand temperings into a blade... What answer will it forge?

He still remembered those early days in the Zhuming, gazing up at the endless shelves of forging manuals, the armory's display of divine weapons stretching out like an endless sea. As a mayfly never sees the night, a cicada knows nothing of spring and autumn. For the first time in his life, he truly understood how small a man could be next to the ages. With the short lifespan of his kind, he'd be lucky to even scratch the surface of the forging art. He could only start from scraps, filling the crumbling smelting furnace with coal slag. He failed. That sword seemed flawless and sharp beyond measure, yet shattered into pieces when he flicked his finger to test it. "A useless blade..."Burning with shame, he hid it away. What he didn't see was his white-haired master running a finger across that broken sword, nor the thin red line of blood it left on his fingertip. "Waste not the bounty of the world, but perfect it through craft. Good." He remembered the shackles he forged for the Ten-Lords Commission. "Forging a blade is like tempering the soul. The real skill is making the simplest thing well." He didn't understand. If his skills were already exceptional, why did his master make him start from being an apprentice? But he never argued. He believed in the general's words, just as he believed that a true gem never stays buried for long. His fellow disciples came, the Flamewheel Octet came, Huaiyan came. They all watched him, laboring day and night without rest in the Forge. Until the flames finally died out, and they laid eyes on the most fearsome shackles of their lives. The cold gleam of those manacles was muted, but their menace weighed on one like a mountain. No one could have imagined that years later, the imprisoned Borisin Warhead would spend long, long years locked up in chains cut from the same cloth. He remembered the trial for Furnace Master. But for a short-life species to be chosen as the chief craftsman of the Zhuming, that was unprecedented. He'd prepared himself well. But when the smelting began, he found that all his materials had been swapped for rotten scrap. He just smiled. A day and a night later, he unveiled a delicate, ingenious mechanical lion, a creation that put any treasure-forged contraption to shame. He remembered how before being granted the title "Furnace Master," his master repeated that simplest of questions— "What makes a blade?" He'd never once hesitated in his answer. That was the peerless weapon he was meant to forge, the one that would leave every other blade in the dust. Yet when these distant memories resurface, all he could hear was the mournful howls of shattered blades.

He joined the Stellaron Hunters to seek the ultimate "salvation"... At least, that's what the Hunters promised. Clink, clank, bullet casings clattered to the ground, like some kind of melody. "Oh no, I'm all out of bullets." The lady raised both hands, eyes darting toward the sky. The night was silent. Then a pillar of light pierced the heavens, hurtling toward the hunters. The madman charged straight into it. The high-energy beam nearly tore him apart. No, clearly not. His flesh was like rampant spring ivy, knitting itself back together in the blink of an eye. "Stop testing my loyalty! If I find out your promises were nothing but lies, I'll be the first to put a blade through you!" "Listen to me, Bladie. As long as you don't want it, no one can make you bleed." The Antimatter Legion before her eyes was torn to shreds by a dark figure. A silver mech punched what few Voidrangers remained into dust, then turned to watch, helpless, as one man danced alone against an army. "Remember, Sam, whatever you do, don't get caught in his sword formation." She recalled Kafka's parting words before the mission. And now, staring at the gruesome wreckage before her, she understood what it meant to be a blade— He was the sharpest "Blade" of the Stellaron Hunters. Clink, clang, the snow came down all night, so thick it nearly buried the camp whole. The silver-haired girl stepped out of her tent and found him still sitting cross-legged, sword laid across his knees. "Get some rest. I'll take watch tonight." "No need. I'm used to it." "Hmph. Weirdo." She watched as snow piled up on his shoulders, as if it had turned his hair white. A deep chill suddenly washed over her. She understood then. There were some people in this world who could only find a moment's peace on these barren, empty snowfields.

Chaos. Darkness. The belly of the beast from the dawn of the universe seemed ready to dissolve everything. He'd thought himself numb to pain long ago, but now an invisible struggle threatened to tear his soul to shreds. Petty whispers chattered on and on inside his head, step by step, coaxing him toward the abyss of ruin. "Why resist? I can grant you the power to reforge life and death itself, to undo all your regrets!" Undo all regrets... He thought of Master Huaiyan, the disappointment in his eyes. He thought of the five of them, once so full of promise. He thought of the ending he should have had... No. Not that. Never that. Not once, not ever. This was nothing but escape, cowardice, surrender... Just like those years spent rotting in regret. Just like this aimless, half-dead existence, wandering from day to day with nothing but the wish to die. That wasn't how his "script" was supposed to "end." "Stellaron Hunters exist to rewrite Finality, and to rewrite their own endings." In the "Finality" Elio revealed, he glimpsed a sea of spider lilies scattered with bones, a boundless beast skewered through, and a furnace belching flames. Black hair turned white as snow, and the aged artisan could finally embrace death. Yet the root of the immortality calamity had already bloomed anew elsewhere... He still has a chance to change it all. "Yingxing, are you really so bent on dragging us both into the abyss!? All you'll gain is endless suffering, torn between life and death!" He didn't hear Shuhu's frenzied roar. Instead, he heard his master's voice, his companions' voices, his own voice— "What makes a blade?" He had once forged shackles to cage the mighty foes. Now, he would forge himself into a prison. As a hunter, his sole pursuit had been the elusive release of death. Now, he would take revenge on the architect of this tragedy. He felt himself cracking apart. Piece by piece. Shard by shard. Like snowflakes torn asunder, frozen in an instant by a surge of boundless life, then sent drifting once more into the sea of suffering. "Waste not the bounty of the world, but perfect it through craft. Good." With great effort, he raised his hand, just as he had many years ago when he first lifted the forging hammer, striking the white-hot metal until it was sharp enough to plunge that immortal abomination to unending hell. His scorching iron body couldn't shed tears. In his daze, he could almost believe he was still in the Forge, blazing with blinding radiance like a divine weapon fresh from quenching.

He thought of that lonely island of Insumousu, bristling with rusted, broken swords. He wanted to go back, just once, to let those sword cries of grief, of hatred, of sorrow, rest in peace, if only for a moment. He thought of his aging master, and the warmth born of longing and shame welled up in his chest. Closing his eyes, he could almost smell the smoke and fire of the Zhuming, hear the endless rhythm of hammers on anvils. "Once this is all over, maybe I could..." He let out a long sigh. Then he turned and walked back to the Hunters' camp. "Mara-struck? He's completely cured... At least he's no longer clamoring to skin that little azure dragon alive." "Oh, right, about that box Blade mentioned, he admitted that the stuff inside was a gift for us!" He gently pushed the door open, frowning: "Do I really need to report matters unrelated to the mission to her as well?" "Bladie, thank you." A woman's voice came through the phone. "No need." "We'll celebrate for you once everyone is back." The man paused, took a few steps, then stopped again. "The item in the iron box is poorly made. If you want, I can make another." "Okay, sure," the young girl looked at him in surprise, "then why don't you tell her yourself? Look, talking to you just made me have to restart again!" He didn't reply, but turned around and headed to the next room. "Practice hard, the next time we PK when your hand is healed, I won't go easy on you." "Okay." He unfastened the Shard Sword and placed it by the bed. In the past, it was resentment, it was fury, it was regret, it was the embodiment of all agony. He stroked the shattered blade. What exactly constitutes a blade? Perhaps a blade is simply a blade, nothing more.