Blood Reaper

As the sharp, shimmering steel cleared the dark ironwood scabbard, a brilliant flash of crimson light pierced the cavernous depths of the Audience Chamber, reflecting off the polished marble floor and illuminating the astonished faces of every official assembled below.

Under the watchful eyes of his ministers, military commanders, and guards, Craig stood motionless for a fraction of a second, his gaze fixed on the pristine edge of the blade.

The moment his fingers wrapped firmly around the custom-wrapped tsuka (hilt) of the katana, an invisible, high-frequency shockwave rippled outward from his hand.

His golden-crimson eyes lit up with a sudden, radiant intensity.

Just as he was effortlessly fluent with every blade, spear, and polearm he had ever wielded in his past and present lives, this weapon felt entirely different.

It felt like a natural extension of his own nervous system, an organic appendage born exclusively for slaughter.