The night was unnervingly silent. No wind howled through the mountain passes; no rustling of leaves disturbed the air. Tenshōmura, the Village of Celestial Light, slept peacefully beneath a sky dusted with stars.

But deep within the chambers of the knights' stronghold, one man's mind was anything but peaceful.

Master Renshō stirred in his sleep, his breath coming in short, uneasy bursts. Beneath his closed lids, his eyes twitched as he was pulled into an recurring vision—one that felt too vivid, tooreal,to be a mere dream.

The Nightmare

Flames consumed the village. The once-proud halls of the knights lay in ruins, their banners tattered and burning. Bodies of knights and Ironclads soldiers—hisbrothers and sisters—were strewn across the battlefield, their shinsei blades extinguished. The air reeked of ash and blood.

Screams echoed. The clash of steel rang out like a funeral dirge. In the center of the chaos, a lone figure stood, his back to the Renshō. His robes were torn, his breath ragged. In his hand, a flickering shinsei blade barely held its form.

"Wei…" Renshō voice was a whisper, barely audible over the destruction.

The figure turned slightly, revealing part of his face—scarred, weary, yet still burning with defiance. But before their eyes could meet, a shadow loomed behind him. A blade—cold and merciless—plunged through his chest.

Wei gasped, his body going rigid. Blood dripped from his lips as his shinsei blade flickered out. The life drained from his eyes.

"No!" Renshō lurched forward, but the vision collapsed around him like shattered glass.

Awakening

His eyes snapped open, his body drenched in sweat. The quiet of his chamber was suffocating, the contrast between reality and nightmare jarring. He sat up, running a hand through his hair, his breath still uneven.

"The same dream…" he murmured. But deep down, he knew better. It wasn't just a dream.

It was a warning.

And he had no idea how to stop it.

As Renshō got up, his eyes gazed out his window to see the chill of night hung over Tenshōmura, the Village of Celestial Light. A cold wind whispered through the towering peaks of the Three Wolves Mountains, rattling the wooden eaves of the knights' great temple. The village, nestled in the heart of the Land of Iron, was quiet—its people safe under the watchful presence of the knights and their sworn protectors. But within the halls of the temple, unrest stirred.

Master Renshō walked swiftly through the dimly lit corridors, his breath slow and measured, yet his mind raced. His footsteps, muffled by the thick wool of his robes, echoed faintly against the stone floor. He had kept seeing these visions, and every time it was so vivid and so... Final.

The dream was still fresh in his mind. He had witnessed fire raining from the heavens, screams swallowed by the roaring wind. Tenshōmura, their sacred home, was in ruins. The once-proud knights lay broken, their shining shinsei blades extinguished. The man he never met before calling his name like an old friend and always right behind him in the center of it all—standing amidst the carnage—was a lone figure wreathed in shadow.

His heart weighed heavy as he approached the meditation chamber of the Knight Council. There was only one knight he could turn to for wisdom, and he always knew he would be there at this time of night.

Pushing open the wooden doors, Renshō stepped inside.

At the center of the chamber, seated upon a raised stone dais, was Master Shiryō —the eldest and most revered of the knights. His small, aged frame was wrapped in heavy robes, his long silver beard resting against his chest. Though his body had long since withered with time, his presence was as vast as the mountains themselves. His eyes, sharp despite his years, lifted as Renshō entered.

"You walk with a troubled step, Renshō," Shiryō said, his voice carrying the weight of years of wisdom. "Your mind is stormed by the same visions, yes?"

Renshō exhaled, kneeling before the elder knight. "Yes, master, every time it keeps getting dark… . A prophecy, perhaps." He hesitated, then met Shiryō's gaze. "I saw the end of the knights."

Shiryō's expression did not change. He simply folded his hands together, waiting. Renshō continued.

"Our village was burning. Our warriors—our people—were slaughtered. The man I keep calling Wei and standing at the center of it all was a figure I could not see. A darkness, unseen yet all-consuming." His fingers curled into a fist. "It was no mere nightmare."

For a long moment, Shiryō was silent. Then, with a slow breath, he spoke.

"Visions are like rivers, ever shifting. What you have seen may come to pass… or it may be but a warning." He leaned forward slightly, his ancient eyes searching Renshō's face. "But the flow of fate is not so easily stopped."

Renshō's jaw tightened. "Then what am I to do? If our fall is inevitable—"

"No." Shiryō lifted a single finger. "Inevitable? Nothing , Renshō. Every storm begins as a whisper. Every war, a single blade drawn."

Renshō considered his words.

Shiryō studied him for a moment longer, then nodded as if coming to a decision. "You have felt the winds of change," he said. "If the end is what you fear, then you must become the force that bends fate." He paused. "The village will endure… if its future is strong."

Renshō furrowed his brow. "What do you mean?"

Shiryō closed his eyes, breathing deeply. Then, with certainty, he spoke.

"The next generation must be ready. And for that… you must take a student."

Renshō's eyes widened slightly. The path was clear.

He would train an apprentice.

And unbeknownst to him, that apprentice… would be the name he had been calling all along.

To Be Continued…