The first thing Voltae saw when he opened his eyes was snow, drifting lazily past his window in thick, slow-moving flakes. The backyard was silent beneath the blanket of winter, and the training grounds beyond the porch were covered in snow. Scarred wood fencing, patched walls, and worn dirt now looked pure—almost as if the years of sweat and struggle had been wiped away overnight.

Voltae groaned, pressing the heel of his hand against his forehead. His breath fogged in the cold. So it begins.

The training grounds hardly deserved the name. Yosei had built them himself decades ago: scavenged planks, mismatched beams, walls held together more by rope and stubbornness than skill. Repairs seemed endless. To Voltae, the place always looked more like a collapsing barn than a dojo. He had once teased Yosei about tearing it down and replacing it with something new, something worthy of the glittering skyline that pulsed below the hill.

Yosei only shook his head, running calloused fingers along the battered wood. "Every scar is a memory. Every fracture, truth. To erase them would be to lie about what they endured."

Back then, Voltae thought it sounded like nonsense. But this morning, on the cusp of his final duel with his master, he wondered if perhaps the old man had been right.

He dressed slowly, pulling on his training garb: silk robes, tailored in his master's style, though trimmed for movement and muted in tone. The mirror caught his crimson eyes, reflecting like twin coals. He held his own gaze, fighting the churn in his stomach.

"Okay," he whispered. "It's time." He struck his fist against his chest, the thought echoing in the quiet room. "I will do this. I have to. The student must surpass the master, right?"

Sliding the door open, he stepped barefoot into the snow. The cold bit into his skin, sharp as a blade. Across the yard, Yosei was already waiting.

The old man stood straight as a pine, his snow-white hair tied tightly, his lean frame stiff in the cold. His eyes were closed, his breathing steady, and his presence unshakable. At his side hung the nodachi that had forged his legend: the Nameless Black Star Slayer. Its lacquered scabbard shone faintly, deadly yet straightforward. Yosei once told Voltae this story—how the smith who made it was forgotten, how its proper name was lost, and how Yosei gave it the title of Nameless to honor both truth and irony.

It was straightforward to see. But Voltae had spent his life learning that appearances don't matter.

His own blade, a simple student's nodachi, hung heavy at his side. Today, it would decide everything.

When Yosei finally opened his eyes, there was a softness there, almost a smile. Voltae missed it—nerves blurred his view.

The two took their places at opposite ends of the snow-covered yard. The wind picked up, blowing flakes between them like drifting sparks.

Neither moved. Seconds dragged on like years.

Finally, Voltae broke the silence. "What's the hold-up?"

Suddenly, steel hissed in the air toward Voltae's head.

His instincts screamed at him. His nodachi snapped free in a silver arc, meeting Yosei's strike with a ring like a temple bell. Sparks burst where their blades clashed.

"Do not hold back, Voltae!" Yosei thundered. "I intend to kill you!"

A boot hit Voltae's ribs hard. The boy gasped and fell into the snow. White powder burst around him, hiding his shape. But he got up. Voltae always got up.

Their blades clashed again, a flurry of slashes and parries. Yosei's precision was relentless—each movement calculated, each strike sure. Voltae responded with speed, desperation, and instinct. Pushing himself to the limit, Voltae finally slashed close enough to tear a strip of cloth from Yosei's sleeve.

They stopped cold. Snow spun around them.

"...Are you holding back, sensei?" Voltae panted.

"Still..." Voltae tightened his grip. "You are better than this. Something clouds your mind."

The old man's lips pressed thin. "Criticizing your master, are you? Hmph. Then prove your words. Let our swords speak for themselves."

The duel picked up again, heavier than before. Yosei attacked like an avalanche, each attack breaking through Voltae's defenses. Every kick sent him sprawling onto splintered wood. Snow and blood mixed as the boy kept staggering back to his feet again and again.

Then came the final strike. Yosei's blade cut through his defense, hurling him through the training wall into the frozen earth beyond. Voltae's body screamed to surrender. His vision swam. Yet still he lifted his sword, as his arm trembled, defiantly.

Yosei moved through the wreckage with his sword held high. Snow covered his robes, and his face was expressionless. This would be the end.

The slash fell--

Steel kissed Voltae's palm.

And then—

A sound echoed in his skull, like a lock being undone. His nodachi's hilt split open, revealing a hollow cavity. From within, light emerged. A searing green radiance burst outward, flooding the snow with brilliance. Yosei froze, his eyes wide. Before he could speak again, the beam lanced through his chest.

Blood splattered across the white earth. Yosei staggered, the sword slipping from his grasp. He collapsed, crimson spreading beneath him.

Voltae fell to his knees, tears silently streaming down his face. His master, his father, lay dead at his hand. No victory. No honor. No choice.

Only fate.

The light dimmed. The recess sealed. Then, in the hilt, a diamond-cut gem shimmered to life. Green, faintly pulsing, it seemed alive.

Voltae screamed, his cry piercing the snowfall. He had no idea how long he stayed there. Minutes, hours -- the snow covered time. The world itself seemed unwilling to intrude.

Until it did.

A blast hurled him across the yard. He hit the earth, gasping, vision blurring with white and red.

Through the haze, a tall figure approached. He was a man with broad shoulders and skin dark as midnight. Silver braids swung with his steps, one eye molten metal, the other scarred shut. His body was a lattice of scars, his frame shaped like tempered steel. In his hands gleamed two wooden swords—bokken that should have been splintered long ago, yet thrummed with power.

From their hilts pulsed two crescent-shaped gray gems.

"Who are you?" Voltae rasped, forcing himself upright.

The man sneered. "Pathetic. This is what Yosei left behind? This is the boy who killed him?" He spat into the snow. "Figures. The old fool never could choose a worthy heir."

Voltae's eyes widened. "You... knew him?"

The man's lips curled. "Knew him? He was my master, too. Until he cast me out." He lifted his bokken, their gems sparkling with blue light. "I am the Ripple Star, wielder of the Wave Gem."

The storm howled, swallowing his words as he leveled a blade at Voltae's chest.

"And you--" His voice was ice.

The blizzard howled, swallowing the world whole.