***
Power was never a gift.
Not in this world.
Not in the Warring States era, where even gods bled and children were taught to kill before they could read.
Seiji had always known that. Even in his past life—where battles were fought in boardrooms instead of blood-soaked mud—he knew power had to be carved from the world, not handed over.
And now, with a sword in his hand and death on the wind, he carved without hesitation.
-----
He found the temple by accident.
Buried beneath stone and time, choked by vines and silence. Hidden in a forest no map dared mark. He was sixteen then—on the cusp of leaving his clan, tired of their limits, their small wars, their hollow traditions.
He'd felt a pull in his chest for days. Not chakra. Not instinct. Something older. A pressure in the air, like the world holding its breath.
When he found the entrance—half-collapsed and half-buried—he knew it wasn't meant to be found.
Naturally, he went in.
The stone walls were marked in symbols even his current lifetime's memory couldn't translate. The deeper he went, the colder it became. Not in temperature—in silence. Like the earth itself had forgotten how to breathe.
At the end of a long corridor, past crumbled statues and dead seals, he found it:
A sword.
Blackened steel. Intricate carvings on the hilt that shimmered faintly with chakra. Wrapped in ancient cloth, untouched by rot or dust.
It wasn't elegant. It wasn't ceremonial.
It was primal. A weapon built for killing gods.
When he touched it, the sword screamed.
Not in sound—but in sensation. Visions hit him. Fire raining from the sky. Ash replacing soil. Two brothers, one with eyes like galaxies, the other with raw energy coursing through his veins.
The Sage of Six Paths.
The era before even myths were myths.
He nearly passed out. But he held on. Let the sword's chakra clash with his.
He didn't dominate it.
He endured it.
And after a full minute of silence, the blade stopped resisting.
It had chosen him.
-----
He called it Yoruha, the Night's Edge.
Forged, he suspected, in an age where chakra was more than a tool—it was truth. The blade felt alive in his hands. It hummed when danger was near. It devoured chakra like it was starving.
And it demanded discipline.
-----
That's when he began to refine his Breathing Styles.
The clan styles were too rigid. Too flashy. Meant for shows of power or battlefield intimidation. He wanted something quieter. Cleaner. Deadlier.
His first technique was born during a night of starvation and exhaustion. Hunted by mercenaries. Running on fumes. He was half-dead when he meditated by a stream and realized:
Breath is life. Control it, and you control everything.
And thus, his first form took shape.
Ashen Breathing, First Form: Flicker Fang.
A short-range displacement slash—a feint so fast it looked like teleportation. Designed to bypass the enemy's guard before they even processed movement.
It wasn't beautiful.
But it worked.
From there, the style expanded.
-----
Now, at seventeen, Seiji stood at the edge of a canyon where mist rolled like sleeping giants. The wind howled through the cliffs, sharp as glass.
He closed his eyes.
The world faded to silence. Heartbeat. Inhale. Exhale.
He held Yoruha at his side.
"Ashen Breathing… Third Form."
"Pale Requiem."
He stepped forward—and vanished.
Not from sight, but from sound. His entire body became mist and momentum. The slash he executed would've bisected a boulder without the boulder noticing.
When he reappeared, a tree behind him split in half.
A few leaves floated down, untouched.
He frowned.
"Still too slow."
But deep down… he was satisfied.
For now.
-----
That night, he sat near the fire, blade across his lap, writing the shape of a Fourth Form in the dirt.
His body ached. His mind buzzed. But a strange quiet settled over him.
He looked up at the stars.
Madara was out there. Somewhere.
Raising hell. Fighting wars. Smirking like a devil.
And for the first time in a long while, Seiji didn't feel alone in his madness.
He let the fire burn low.
The blade at his side pulsed faintly, as if it, too, was watching the sky.
***