Chapter 3

Blade of the Ancients

Winds fluttered about the half a dozen tents in Bone Village. Normally the small division of the Northern Continents enjoyed tranquil times with few visitors. But these were troubled times–villagers vanishing into the Sleeping Forest. Some returned; many did not. Those who did claimed hideous monsters, leaking mako, had digested friends and family. The relatives of the missing now congregated around the small contingent of Shin-ra SOLDIERs assigned to investigate these strange disappearances. It was a paltry offering, the President of Shin-ra Incorp. opting to dispatch the bulk of his task force into occupying North Corel. Still, the conglomerate had to make a token gesture, and here it was, in the form of these inexperienced, third class SOLDIERs.

All sixteen of us. Political maneuvering, indeed, thought one of their number. As ever, the cool cynical Sephiroth. The twisted lips did not diminish his otherworldly beauty. He was a most magnificently handsome creature. A shimmering cascade of polished silver streamed his person to beyond his trim waist. It fell neatly, fluidly, and with characteristic grace. Like-color bangs hovered the statuette visage like steel daggers. His complexion, while flesh as any normal being, was of a marble texture, vaguely feminine with its delicately chipped nose, chin, high cheeks, and thin lips. Hard muscle filled out his extensive, near-perfect body. Both shoulders were broad and the neck was veined like a stem of a pillar.

Like all members of this elite task force, his exotic emerald eyes gleamed to the input of mako in his veins. The two slightly slanted aquamarine eyes were set well into the face, ranging in shades according to his various moods. They could be a thoughtful soft green to an icy enraged blue. But they shone dully now, a disinterested green, because Sephiroth, third-class company trooper, found little to interest him.

General Bhale, Leader of this company of SOLDIERs, was a portly forty-three year old man with a flourishing beard and a stern disposition. He briefly barked out a peach-and-daisy articulation to Bone Village's inhabitants. This consisted of 'decimating monsters' and 'rescuing innocents'. Sephiroth knew better. There would be little retribution and certainly no salvation. It was a manipulative appeasement so that the villagers would cease protests and return to the digging expedition.

Dust columned the contingent, forcing several present to blink, cough, or sneeze. Sephiroth remained perfectly erect. He was the top of his class, top of the next couple of classes to be precise. While others suffered visibly from the discomfort the silver-haired man could be made of stone. Some admired such fortitude–but most despised his endurance, beauty, and charm, and, thus, making friends was difficult.

I have no friends. I might lie to the public but there's no reason to lie to myself. Still, even that small confession, however internally kept, unnerved him. He knew people were sociable creatures and his inability to do the same marked him as abnormal. There existed no connection between himself and his sire or matriarch–he'd been told cruelly by Hojo that his mother had died at his childbirth and his father deserted him at the crib. This failure to nourish such an important outlet in his life carried onto all his other relations. So, try as he might, friendships shunned Sephiroth.

Then came Lanine's silly smile. Every so often she'd glance at him and curl her lips which Sephiroth took to be an insult. Women did that frequently but as to the why eluded the silver-haired man. Love, such foolishness. The crack in the armor of an otherwise sturdy warrior. It left him vulnerable and prone to attack.

Sephiroth was glad he could not love.

Completing his overly flowery speech, the General turned his navy gaze on his troops. He, too, appeared bored though Bhale demanded absolute attention from his subordinates. Every last one of them stood dead on their feet. Even Sephiroth, whose physical prowess could be a prodigy, had stiff muscles and little sleep. Storms besieged the Northern Continents for weeks now. The boat ride from Junon Harbor had not been pleasant.

None dared exhibit more than the minimal of soreness, though, as the General addressed them. "We'll divide into four teams of four each. You know the routine and, of course, your teams. I'll head Gamma squadron this time. Inside each of your backpacks is a medallion. Use it to safely navigate the Sleeping Forest. Never remove it–that's an order. A new team leader will be selected for this...mission. I'll expect an oral report when we reconvene in twenty-four hours..."

Beautiful. Just beautiful. Another boy-scout campout. The SOLDIER frowned. His blood boiled for real adventure, real battle. Only first-class' encountered that, however. As he scanned his comrades, that frown deepened. Most of them seemed content with the non-threatening mediocre. And who could blame them? Despite the rigors of second and first classes, third's SOLDIERs had it relatively easy. Paid rent, nourishment, moving expenses, entertainment expenses, extra gil. What more could anyone want?

Glory. Fame. Respect. This Sephiroth longed for and these were the reasons he could blame them for. They are as animals–feed them, pet them, protect them and none would object with their utter lack of ambition. For the quiet green-eyed boy of Midgar that would never do.

Estuans interius ira vehementi...

Where had that come from?

The voices...that's where.

Sephiroth stilled them, schooling his mind into gray mode. The gray mode meaning–assimilating information while revealing none in return. His eyes saw the world but the world did not see him. His smile was like a dagger–cold and sharp and deadly. Just like himself. Considered beautiful by some of the female population he rarely indulged in vanity. Thus his attire is an austere ensemble.

Still, plain though it be, the clothing favored him. A SOLDIER outfit of black covered his form out at the chest with crisscrosses of brown leather, with a silver emblem sewn over his stomach. Because his shoulders were so broad, two white leather pads were stitched on for additional protection, connecting with his extensive midnight cloak which can be belted at the middle. The trousers are black, as well, nondescript and fall to meet his tall, also ebony boots which almost reach his knees. Twin straps of leather surround the upper and lower knee, perhaps for support.

Rare is it that Sephiroth let himself be seen without his customary black gloves. Why? Sephiroth himself was uncertain. But he imagined the reasons range from his detesting to touch blood despite a scientific background (or maybe because of the scientific background) to the exotic number one tattooed to his left hand.

He should be leader. But political intrigue would prevent such an occurrence, he did not doubt. Though the most skilled man alive he might be (and probably was) his lack of popularity would wreck any possibilities. Being selected team leader had little to do with who was best for the position and more to do with the person who commanded the most respect. Never to be leader. People must like their leader. People did not like Sephiroth.

So it was with no little astonishment that the eighteen-year old man felt when the Delta team leader papers were slapped into his hands. Briefly shocked, he recovered and peered curiously at General Bhale. A mistake, perhaps...

No mistake. "You'll do a fine job," he said uninspiringly.

Deciding not to question authority nor fortune, Sephiroth nodded respectfully as his commanding officer passed him to assign other leaders. He could already see the black looks his teammates were shooting him. A sigh. This would not be easy. First overjoyed by the opportunity so long denied him, coursing as mako in his veins, now the happiness bled from him. Harsh reality set in. It was not that he felt unequal to the task but the thought of commanding his peers, peers who detested him, made Sephiroth wonder if this was not fortune after all...

Monsters he could handle; people he could not.

Rich golds, oranges and crimsons highlighted his marble face, eerie in his green eyes. The campfire provided heat and light but Sephiroth ordered it kept low. Lured monsters, he explained to his three teammates when they complained. Neither had openly objected yet to his unprecedented position. Still he witnessed it in their exchanged looks, their sneers as they responded to his dominance.

For several hours now the quartet had searched Sleeping forest for indications of wandering monsters. A rather uneventful inspection, seeing as the only inhabitants they noted was a rabbit or two but they didn't relax their guard. Still, it was a beautiful woodland. Trees of thin veins for branches or massive sturdy trunks encircled them. The canopy of leaves shattered any light streaming from above into myriad shapes. As instructed none of the four removed their magical medallions.

The black-cloaked man squinted at the various papers. Maps, instructions, papers detailing monster's habits. Homework, thought Sephiroth with rare humor. They'd already discovered a network of caves he wanted to explore in the morning. Still, time was limited. They would have to report back to the General. Maybe Sephiroth could convince him to investigate the caves. Maybe, maybe not.

Sitting back against a log, stretching out aching legs, the prodigy of Midgar swept his gaze over his subordinates. Lanine, her shoulder-length brown hair fluttering, offered him another vexing smile. She was a good head and shoulders shorter than him but Sephiroth could not deny her proficiency with a knife. Sitting next to her was Michael. At this moment he digested a leg of lamb while laughingly telling some dirty joke to Terence, the last of Sephiroth's warriors. Terence was a cool man, given to ruthlessness and made no secret of his distaste that Sephiroth commanded him.

And these are my soldiers? Not for the first time did the silver-haired man wonder. Still, one plays with the cards they are given, not the deck itself, and Sephiroth was determined to make the best of it.

He cleared his throat. "We will sleep here tonight with each of us taking a watch for about two hours. I'll be first watch. You, Lanine, be second. Micheal third and Terence you can finish with the predawn. We'll scout around the northern mountains and return to Bone Village to present a report." Failing to mention his discovery of the caves seemed pertinent. His subordinates should see their leader's dictates not his desires. "We'll keep on alert for the inhabitants. They are not friendly."

"Don't say," muttered Terence.

"I think he did say," Micheal jested.

"Listen up guys," came Lanine's soft-spoken rebuke, "Sephiroth is speaking."

Children. I'm dealing with children. "If you see any monsters, fire them with your strongest spells. No hesitation." Finishing the conversation, or thinking so, he climbed to his feet and shook the leaves out his midnight cloak. With irritation he noted that Terence watched him with a glare.

"General Bhale told us to conserve the materia. No unnecessary waste. I guess you won't be casting any kick-ass fire spells, huh?"

In his mind Sephiroth saw the insolent man impaled a hundred times on his sword. He hated his peers as much as they hated him. But he would be six feet under before they walked all over him. "I am team leader. I make the rules." He gestured to the papers that the General supplied him.

Acting swiftly before Sephiroth knew what he was doing, Terence snatched the papers out of his hands. His face burned as the campfire itself. Attempting to retrieve the documents proved pointless as his subordinate dodged. Once, twice, three times he sought to yank it away but Terence had enough presence of mind to evade his hated superior.

"Not leader anymore, eh?"

Whipping out his sword, Sephiroth was sorely tempted to run Terence through. His head pounded with burning violence. All the humiliation, degradation, isolation threatened to burst at that moment. Had the blacker side of Sephiroth prevailed the annoying young man would be choking on his own blood.

Estuans interius ira vehementi...

But the violence found its way barred. Sephiroth placed a hand over his heart and stilled the thundering. How had the anger festered to the point of erupting as murder? So close, so close he came to losing his sanity. Too close for comfort. Instead, he settled for smashing the hilt against Terence's forehead, effectively rendering him unconscious. His gaze cold as he reclaimed the manuscript, Sephiroth retired to his tent, declaring over his shoulder, "As you can guess, I will not tolerate insubordination. You are forewarned."

Lanine stared after him, mouth unhinged with shock and admiration. Michael laughed at the display. Eventually their last member awoke but not before their leader had barricaded his tent from them. Terence scowled but did not retaliate. They assumed he would not be taking first watch after all.

They were wrong. He took first, second, third, last and then some more. Sephiroth lay on his blankets all night, emerald eyes shading into a sharp icy blue. Something terrible had come over him today. It felt so right it could not be wrong. He sighed, chest heavy, feeling like the burning campfire outside. Here, surrounded by his little legion, Sephiroth felt more alone than he did while truly alone.

Late afternoon sun filtered through the massive leaves in the Sleeping Forest as Sephiroth's team returned to Bone Village. The four squadrons, Alpha, Beta, Gamma and Delta rejoined as a single unit. A dull gray mist lingered around, slitting here and there by fresh sunlight. The mist appeared as ghosts of another realm. Some suspected that it was a side effect of the mysterious Sleeping Forest.

General Bhale reassured the villagers that the search was yet ongoing. No one had found anything particularly remarkable and so, in light of this, Sephiroth felt encouraged to present his own little discovery. And, after careful deliberation, Bhale accepted it. 'Better than chasing squirrels' he said. If they could salvage a single body for the inhabitants the protests would likely cease. Shin-ra would be satisfied that the money-earning expeditions had resumed and the third class SOLDIER would receive raises. Not what Sephiroth was looking for but even praise could later lead to promotions.

Hopefully. I can't stand being a second-rate warrior any more.

Assembling his troops, the General listened to each verbal essay. Sephiroth articulated his brief report in a research-paper-like manner, omitting the incident between himself and Terence altogether. The other team leaders had little else to add. No one had seen a monster in the whole of Sleeping Forest. Bhale concluded that the villagers had merely gotten eaten by some wayward bear. Still, any evidence would suffice so, once the reports finished, they all headed off for the caverns.

Fortunately, the march did not tire nor result in injuries. The green-eyed native of Midgar actually found himself enjoying the walk. No one bothered him, rumor circulating that he'd put Terence into his place. He fervently hoped that the knowledge would prevent any other approaches by his peers, male and female alike. Earlier in the morning, Lanine had attempted to stroke his hair, saying it was a wonderful color. Sephiroth explained coldly that it was the result of mako gone awry and passed by her. Now she ignored him.

Good. Women are annoying. Why do they dither with romance?

The sixteen SOLDIERs and their General encountered the network of caves. Most did not seem impressed. Half loafed off, professing to 'stand guard' or 'investigate the surrounding areas'. That suited Sephiroth just fine. He wanted no one to steal his glory should the caves prove valuable.

Thus, when Bhale asked for volunteers there was but one.

"Sir, I volunteer," Sephiroth stated clearly. Seeing his superior about to conscript additional SOLDIERs he lifted a hand as respectfully as possible and added, "It'll only take ten minutes. I can go alone."

Some of his malice-spirited peers snickered at this. Terence looked especially interested. However, the General acquiesced. Sephiroth, a tint gracing his pale cheeks like crushed rose petals on marble, unsheathed his army-assigned sword and entered.

Utter darkness. Extending a hand he summoned a sphere of flame as verdant as his eyes to produce light. It guided his path though more than once Sephiroth used his hand to serve as additional help to steady himself. Where had that habit come from? In the annuals of history, time's flowing river, a memory of his past returned. Midgar. Darkness. Fear.

He shook his head, liquid silver fanning out in a brilliant waterfall. It did not matter. Dismissing such irrelevant questions, the prodigy SOLDIER progressed further into the caves. It divided into several supplementary routes but he remained on the center one. To branch off might end up getting him lost. Doing that would provoke more laughter of his peers. Gods, could Sephiroth control himself if that happened? He didn't know. Didn't want to know.

In amazement, Sephiroth realized the various rock formations were, in actually, mako glazed stone. His corridor ran the length of a large hallway that ended in an antechamber. Behind loomed the entrance, some distance back, like an evil white eye with shadows of his fellow SOLDIERs fluttering within.

A gasp came from him. Before him stood a panoramic view of towering walls of mako-stained stone seeming to worship a fantastic statue best. The statue of muscles, fangs, and six–no, eight–stout legs. In its fierce stone eyes reflected a mako pool of sheer radiance. Below, that obsidian pool filled with steaming emerald mako. The glittering waters contained a stunning katana blade.

To see the beauty, Sephiroth experienced a sense of fulfillment, of belonging. He longed to touch the slender blade. He pushed silver hair out of his eyes, not relinquishing his gaze. As a result of time duration his light vanished, but, by now, the mako pool provided the necessary illumination. As drawn like a stream to the ocean, he knelt by the pool. Mako shined in his own eyes. Eagerness, too.

Where did this wondrous weapon come from? From human ancestors? The Ancients? Aliens? He ceased to care. It was a gift. Who it came from, Sephiroth decided not to question. To do so seemed sacrilegious somehow. To do anything but accept this gracious gift from the heavens was an offense. Stretching out an ebony-gloved hand, as if to reach godhood itself, he flinched. Flinched for the pain sure to besiege him.

Materia in its raw form is mako. A greenish substance, highly flammable in this state, it burns as acid. Thus it is often harvested with sturdy mechanical machines. But death itself could not disillusion the Midgar prodigy once his mind was set. And it did assault the SOLDIER but his fortitude remained intact. Searing to his flesh, scalding fissures into his glove, still he delved into the murderous liquid. Sweat streaked his temple. Such intense pain.

At last, Sephiroth's fingers felt the hilt. A single gem decorated the pommel, its simplicity more beautiful than all the jewels in the Shin-ra mansion at Nibelhiem. A dragonscale hilt with a deadly six-foot diamond blade. His hand closed about the sword and, with an internal fanfare, Sephiroth withdrew it from the greenish depths.

It's beautiful! So beautiful! Sephiroth's face contorted in joy for this more than any other event. That included birthdays, holidays, special occasions. War was his love. His only love.

Dragonscale, indeed. A hard substance coated the pommel, with a black ribbon fluttering about the contact between blade and hilt. Mako veined the diamond blade. It afforded the weapon a slight emerald shine that suited Sephiroth's eyes. As if a blacksmith had calculated his weight, height and balance, the blade felt immaculate in his hand. He read the the inscription on the weapon. Though a language he'd never encountered before, it was perfectly decipherable like his mother tongue.

Eskallanilna. Ils eluys eldab cetra. Ils eluys Seraph karlma.

Masemune. Blade of the Ancients. Ruler of the heavens.

Holding Masemune aloft, Sephiroth knew he would never be alone again.

Suddenly a terrific crunching alerted the SOLDIER's ears that he was no longer alone. So far from the entrance, Sephiroth could not see his companions. Rising from beside the pool, mako dripping from his new-found weapon, he cast the old sword aside. The noise intensified and it was with immense horror that he realized the source of the sound.

The statue beast. Guardian of Masemune.

As if the abyss of the Planet vented, a forbidding roar emanated from this beast. Its stone outer-coating cracked and finally burst, as a gargoyle at night, eyes shining in mako and fury. Easily dwarfing the tall Sephiroth, the sheer size extended to the ceiling. All eight legs stretched in a centuries-long overdue exercise and the menacing gaze fell upon Sephiroth. For all the flawlessness and skill the native of Midgar projected, his heart fluttered fearfully.

Again, Sephiroth decoded the eccentric language as spoken by the Guardian. His voice came as deep as the entrails of time itself. Red eyes squinted thoughtfully. "Sephiroth...creation...destruction...have you come for the Blade of the Ancients?"

Sephiroth didn't know how to reply and so remained silent.

"Masemune..." Guardian bellowed. "You...are not of this world...who are you, mortal?" Before the SOLDIER could answer that (though he hadn't the faintest idea about how to respond), the beast continued. "I touch your mind yet I can find nothing. No emotion. No thoughts. Are you the one foretold?...I cannot permit you to take Masemune without knowing your worth. Come, he of the mako eyes. Come prove yourself."

Without further warning, the beast sprang forward, making a splash in the mako pool. Four legs swiped Sephiroth into the far wall, resulting in several cracked ribs. Instinct snapped in his mind. He dodged another attack that might have broken more than just ribs. Drawing breath was like sucking down a sword. Torture. But he could not simply sit and nurse his wounds and so the deadly dance called battle began.

Forcing air down parched lungs, he sidestepped another pass of quartet appendages. Voices filled his brain, alien and commanding. Cleaved in two–one voice sibilant and cool; another warm and encouraging. They clashed as he swung Masemune in a brilliant arch. Deflected by the front legs. Guardian managed to nick his mortal opponent in the hip, and Sephiroth left a crimson footprint with each step.

More on the defensive than aggressive now, it horrified the Midgar prodigy to realize that none of his peers came to his rescue. Briefly confused, hearing Guardian's fierce cry, he then bitterly knew why. As acidic as the mako, the awareness burned him. I'm just a third-class SOLDIER. Unwanted. Hated. Expendable. I will live or die by my blade. Ah, Eskallanilna, be true this day.

Masemune hummed beneath his fingers, wordless encouragement. He came in suddenly, surprising the beast with a well-administered slash to its shoulder. Any ordinary weapon would have been as pinpricks. But Masemune was beyond ordinary and it inflicted a serious wound. The beast retaliated with a paw drilling into the rock flooring–a move that would have impaled and crushed Sephiroth all in the same instant.

But he was not there. His cape fluttering behind, whipping as he weaved, hopped, and ducked each fatal blow. Nor was the battle mostly one-sided. Returning to the offensive since his lucky shot, several times Sephiroth scored successive hits along the flank. Green blood, maybe mako, spilled onto the rocks. Sephiroth crouched, observing his adversary as it retreated behind the glittering pool. The eyes grazed his soul.

Again that conflicting feeling, as if belonging to something and nothing at all simultaneously. Guardian tasted the pale soul living within his cold shell. It was a mental victory, one that Sephiroth detested greatly. Wound his body as you will, but he could never stand someone peeling his carefully built walls and attacking within.

Yet Guardian did just that. "You are of her blood...yet something breathes them in you...You are as cold as a glacier yet I feel fire beneath, enough to make a mockery of hell...How can such a being of contradiction exist?"

Before the beast could probe too far, Sephiroth banished the invasion. He sealed up the emotion, memories, and thoughts once again. Why the beast would have such an interest in his personal affairs perplexed him, but the young man hated that side of himself. Sephiroth never understood feelings. It was a weakness; one he loathed to acknowledge.

Startled only for mere moments, he regained control within seconds. But seconds itself was too long. Scorching emerald mako belched from the fanged mouth. Reacting quickly, Sephiroth's only shield was a sword and he used it protect his head. Masemune mercifully diverted nearly all of the killing liquid. Still, some of the fluid found its way to his body. He screamed sharply, once, then rolled away before additional damage could be inflicted.

Back on the defensive, Sephiroth ducked almost exclusively. Regaining his strength was vital. The burns festered as acid in the holes in his attire, excruciating. For a few more minutes, the green-eyed young man parried and evaded. He did not wait for the energy to fully accumulate. Once opportunity lent itself he struck.

Masemune blazed as it entered the mako liquid. Green waters shaped into a wave and with the force of the momentum caused by the sword, exploded over Guardian's face. His shriek shattered the eardrums. Rocks plunged from the ceiling and dust rained with many particles. These fell into his brilliant hair and along the midnight cloak.

Enraged the beast seemed about to continue the struggle but its instinctive mind urged him to flee. Charging past its threat, the mere mortal, Guardian disappeared outside. Instantly screams split the air. Shots rang out. General Bhale's voice rose above the wild din. It was so horrible Sephiroth shook involuntarily.

Then he froze. That beast will cut my peers to ribbons! As much as Sephiroth despised those in his class, he willed no one to die. He was no killer, this Sephiroth. He would protect his fellow company SOLDIERs.

When Sephiroth arrived at the entrance, the sight prompted nausea. Four SOLDIERs lay as broken toys, gutted alive. A fifth moaned, face chalk white, as his heart's blood poured from a chest wound. And mere feet from the native of Midgar was the General, torn to shreds. Grim indeed.

Guardian's ears pricked as he noted Sephiroth's approach. Seeing him as the deadliest adversary it slammed a row of its feet on Sephiroth. Evading all but the last blow, all the SOLDIERs expected to see his arm pulverized as it vanished beneath a claw. But all that tore was the glove, revealing the mysterious number one tattoo, marking him as he is–forever on glory's mountain and its cold isolation.

Sephiroth lifted Masamune dramatically and gasped, "Strike as a collective will! Each to his own team! Press it to the cave!!"

His unworldly voice cut through the paralyzed SOLDIERs. As if they knew naught words but those from Sephiroth's lips, Delta, Alpha, Gamma, and Beta joined as a cohesive unit. They circled the beast, harassing it at all sides. Those more apt with materia showered Guardian with an array of magical attacks. Sephiroth directed the assault, leader for the violence that unfolded itself.

Ice chunks pelted Guardian's forehead squarely. More screams. The earth opened its maw and snapped at his sensitive paws. But the lightning, unleashed by a hysterical Beta member, arched a blue energy bolt and struck the cavern's archway. Guardian lashed out as rocks dropped onto his head. He hacked a pair of SOLDIERs into a bloody mass as they stood too close to each other.

An idea birthed in the mind of Sephiroth. If we could somehow trap the beast back into its lair, a range of well-placed shots at the ceiling should collapse onto Guardian. Thus, disabling it. His heart thundered, as if in love with the battle. The only love that rushed in his veins.

"Gamma, to the right! Delta away from its rear and advance toward to me! Beta guard their progress! Alpha continue attacking its left!" His commands filed each team, organizing them into a cumulative division.

Each looked to Sephiroth for direction, even the surly Terence. His statue, with the flowing silver hair like a dozen steel blades and billowing black cape like the wings of a nether-land angel, captivated them and brainwashed them into following his every order. Masemune was a light they extracted their strength from as it drew mako-blood from Guardian. Even as several more fell, the remnant headed his determined, blazing emerald-azure eyes.

The grace Sephiroth executed each of his katas, the speed in which he released the deadly spells that even First-class' didn't know, and the brilliance of his mind saved them on more than one occasion. Slowly but inexorably they lured Guardian to its doom. Wielding Masemune, he yelled for his peers to strike as one. Surrounded, its only escape leading to the lair, Guardian fell precisely into his trap. Sephiroth then shouted for the guns and magic.

Ammunition discharged with the magical bolts and spheres to collapse the ceiling. Like a perfectly-performed play, boulders crashed onto the beast and it shrieked a dozen times, attempting to liberate itself. It was not yet dead and Sephiroth knew it would exact revenge on its killers. Approaching while all others backed off, he lifted Masemune.

"You are her legacy..."

Estuans interius ira vehementi...

Sephiroth halted, his breathed hitched.

"Terror from the skies..."

Et imanis sors immanis...

"Masemune...is innocent–do not taint it!!"

Eskallanilna.

A gasp and Sephiroth's face paled as if, when Masemune descended to rend into Guardian's skull, that it was his own death it heralded. Mako-blood splattered onto his apparel yet it was long moments before he could move. Staggering to a knee, Masemune kept him aloft. He blinked, trembling violently. Finally, Sephiroth peered about the carnage that was the SOLDIERs. More than a quarter had perished while two would be maimed for life. But that any of them survived was a miracle itself. Had Guardian prevailed none would be alive to speak of this terror.

"Totally unbelievable power!" exclaimed Michael, who danced with glee.

Lanine kissed Sephiroth's bloody hair and for once he did not resist. Not that the green-eyed SOLDIER warmed to her touch but that the shock of the event had not permitted his complaints. She whispered, "My hero..."

Those SOLDIERs who could yet speak offered their appreciation. Some set to tending the wounded. Sephiroth brushed his wet bangs out of his eyes. Masemune rested comfortably in his hand. Do not taint it? Had Sephiroth tainted it? Not a mar of blood remained on the impeccable length of steel. Veins of green mako vibrated in a rhythm paralleling his heartbeat. His vision flashed and again he stumbled, weakened by the ordeal.

But this time many pairs of hands guided him to the gravel ground. Their faces fluttered in his half-closed eyes. Voices floated above his head. Micheal's. Lanine's. Roderick's. Dale's. Kathleen's. So many voices. The SOLDIERs of each division came to his aid–even Terence. And their words...so foreign...what did they mean?

Praise. Praising him...

"SOLDIERs...I think we have ourselves a new General."

To that, Sephiroth could feel Masemune hum happily.

And General Sephiroth was pleased.

"General Sephiroth, Wielder of the destructive force known as Masemune, a legend in the flesh," Luke stated, awed.

Over the course of the day, he and Vincent pored over Shin-ra's secret files and Sephiroth's private military journals. Naturally, the story varied depending on the viewpoint. The massive conglomerate reinterpreted the late General Bhale's position so it looked that he made a better stand, rather than falling in the first round of battle—to cover their asses of hiring unworthy leaders. At first, they completely downplayed Sephiroth's success. But the evidence supported the third-class SOLDIERs rendition of the encounter with Guardian. They wholly championed Sephiroth's brilliant plan and chivalric stand. The controversy had an unexpected affect on the public–they hailed Sephiroth as a hero, who saved his peers from slaughter where his predecessor failed. They insisted Shin-ra promote him to General.

"Shin-ra used the people's love of Sephiroth to their advantage," Vincent added coldly. "They changed their tone like a snake sheds its skin. Claiming a 'miscalculation' by researchers at Bone Villagers, Shin-ra concluded that Sephiroth deserved to be General of their armies. He was the most decorated man in history. Whenever people complained they sent Sephiroth."

"With such a change in pace, from near obscurity to reverence, makes you wonder what affect it had on him," Luke probed not-so-subtly. Vincent, however, never caught hints well and merely murmured yes. Exasperated, the researcher nudged, "How did he feel, you suppose?"

No immediate response. The writings of Sephiroth were frustratingly cryptic. Having no one to show him feelings, the exalted SOLDIER could not produce emotion. Thus, his text was stiff and formal. It held no testament to the tortured soul trapped inside.

"I have often wondered..." he whispered. "But such superficial and fickle popularity did not seem like something Sephiroth would appreciate. I would dare to say it prompted him to withdraw, ultimately contributing to his insanity."

"How so?" asked Luke, mesmerized.

"If someone is not whole before celebrity then such esteem makes the person only more empty inside. To be so falsely loved by others and not love oneself is the greatest loneliness of all."