Six months had passed.
The dojo had seen countless hours of rigorous training, the walls bearing witness to the relentless pursuit of the unattainable.
Seven figures sat in complete stillness, six clones and the original Nero.
Each had been assigned a singular purpose.
Five clones focused entirely on Muso, refining its precision, its overwhelming dominance, the absolute certainty of every motion.
The remaining clone, along with the original Nero, was wholly dedicated to Muga, the path of absolute flow, where thought and intent vanished, leaving only pure instinct.
The air inside the dojo was charged with silent intensity.
Every breath, every shift in energy, every subtle movement spoke of dedication, frustration, progress, and setbacks.
The flickering candlelight cast long shadows on the walls, dancing with each subtle exhale, as if the room itself was alive, breathing in unison with the warriors within.
A single metal helmet, aged but unyielding, rested upon a wooden stand in the center of the dojo.
It had become a symbol of the impossible.
A barrier between what was humanly possible and what lay beyond the threshold.
For six months, the helmet had remained unbroken, standing as an unyielding testament to the limits of human strength and skill.
Zen stood nearby, arms crossed, watching the scene unfold.
His smirk carried the weight of countless failed attempts, a glint of amusement in his eyes.
"Six months of failure. You sure this isn't just a really elaborate way to waste your time?"
Nero, eyes still closed, didn't flinch. "What should happen will happen eventually."
Zen scoffed, but there was no mockery in his tone. "Hah. That's a nice way of saying you still don't know if this will work."
Mu, standing beside him, remained silent.
But his eyes, ever perceptive, flickered toward the helmet, as if waiting.
Then, something changed.
One of the clones shifted.
It was subtle, nearly imperceptible.
The way it exhaled, the angle of its grip, the manner in which its fingers relaxed around the wooden blade.
Mu's expression sharpened.
Zen's smirk faded slightly.
The shift wasn't in the body, it was in the presence.
The clone rose slowly to its feet, wooden sword in hand.
Unlike previous attempts, there was no hesitation, no unnecessary adjustment.
It wasn't preparing to strike.
There was no conscious movement.
It was already striking.
The air warped slightly around the clone, an invisible pulse rippling outward as if the world itself recognized what was happening.
Mu, for the first time in months, narrowed his eyes.
Zen's fingers twitched ever so slightly.
The clone moved.
There was no build-up, no dramatic swing. It simply... happened.
One moment, the wooden sword rested in its grip.
The next, the strike was complete.
There was no wasted motion.
No sound warned of the impact.
Suddenly…
CRACK.
The helmet was met with a force.
Unable to whistand it…it shattered completely.
Fragments of metal scattered across the dojo floor, the explosion of force so precise it almost seemed unnatural.
Yet, the wooden sword in the clone's hand had not stopped moving, it had merely returned to its original position, as if nothing had occurred at all.
For a long moment, silence dominated the dojo.
Zen slowly exhaled. "...Well, shit."
The clone stood motionless for a few moments before releasing its grip on the bokken.
Without hesitation, it dissolved into wisps of paper, the energy dispersing into the air before flowing back into the original Nero.
Nero's breath hitched for just a second.
The transfer was seamless, yet this was different from all previous times.
He felt it.
Not just the memory of the strike.
The understanding of it.
His fingers flexed slightly as the weight of the experience settled into him.
It was not just a technique, it was an awakening.
Zen ran a hand through his hair, still watching the remnants of the helmet on the ground.
"Alright, I'll say it. That was some insane shit."
Mu remained silent for a long moment before finally speaking.
"To think that he has entered into the very beginning of Muga, the Absence of Self... and stepped onto the natural path of Void... so quickly. He really had an affinity for this Principle."
Zen exhaled sharply. "Tch. So, this is what happens when a man decides he doesn't need limits."
Mu's gaze flickered to Nero. "But will he stop here?"
Nero's grip on his bokken tightened slightly, a small smirk forming on his lips.
The knowledge of the strike had merged with his instincts, but there was still a vast distance to go.
Shattering a helmet was only the first step.
He wouldn't stop.
Not until he transcended even this.
For he was Nero Ravenclaw.
The dojo air was still thick with the weight of the moment, but Nero's thoughts surged forward.
He knew that this was Muga, the mindset that had guided his strike.
But what sets this apart? What made this strike succeed when countless others had failed?
Mu seemed to sense the question forming. "It wasn't just force or technique."
Zen nodded, arms crossed. "That was Muga, kid. You weren't in control, yet the strike was perfect. That's why it worked."
The words settled into Nero's mind, but they didn't provide comfort.
Muga was about letting go, about surrendering control to instinct.
If his strike had been perfect in that moment, what had allowed it to manifest now?
His gaze drifted to the faint embers of his vanished clone.
There was something different about this.
The Void had been there, just beneath the surface. It had always been waiting.
Could he harness it? If Muga had led his body to the perfect strike, could Void lead his mind?
Could he let go in combat, trust pure instinct to guide his body?
Could he do the same with his magic?
Zen smirked as he watched Nero's expression shift. "You're already thinking about it, huh? How to take this further?"
Nero exhaled slowly. He had to make a choice.
His clones were still pushing toward Muso, refining their strikes, testing their limits.
But Nero's path would have to diverge.
If he was to truly understand, he needed to feel Void as he had felt Muga, to open himself to it fully.
This wasn't about balance. Not yet.
He had to decide whether to tame Void now or to wait, to let his understanding of Muso and Cosmos develop before trying to unite them.
He clenched his fist, feeling the lingering sensation of the strike that had shattered the helmet.
His clones would continue the work on Muso.
But him... he would stare into the Abyss.
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