Chapter 11

{Author here, I like some gore in stories. Picturing myself doing the fights the MC cutting through a devil's neck or piercing their chest has made writing easier. But this chapter? had me just a bit uncomfortable. Regardless, enjoy the rest of you're week}

The familiar sight of the Blood River still sends chills down my spine. Even after all this time, it remains unnerving—a place where the blood of Muramasa's victims flows, a twisted monument to the cursed blade's legacy. I was starting to rethink my decision to willingly return here.

Walking toward the spot where Mura used to stand, I noticed the river had risen slightly. The thick, crimson liquid moved sluggishly, as if the blood itself was alive. But I paid it no mind—I'd come here with an insane plan, and I intended to see it through.

I sat down, gazing into the blood's surface. My reflection stared back at me, the features of this body still unfamiliar, the scar running across my nose, the mark Arata left behind. A Reminder. 

With a deep breath, I cupped my hands and lowered them into the river. The blood was warm, unsettlingly so, like it had been freshly spilled. Lifting my hands to my open mouth, I hesitated for only a moment before drinking.

...

...

-Pico POV-

I was always told I looked too feminine. I heard it my whole life, but when Tamotsu said it, I killed him. I couldn't help it—there was something about proving them all wrong that thrilled me. I loved it so much that I had to keep going.

People always underestimated me because of my appearance. Someone who looks like a girl can't possibly be a threat, right?

So when the infamous Devil's Lance walked onto the stage, I got excited. For once he looked so nervous—it was cute.

'Seems I was fortunate to come here tonight'

But what stopped being so cute was the moment the fight began. In less than a second, he blurred out of sight, reappearing behind his opponent faster than my eyes could track.

Blood dripped from the right hand of the hunk, pooling beneath what looked like a simple katana. The referee didn't announce the results. Why?

Then I saw it—two heads on the ground.

One belonged to his opponent. The other? The referee.

"This won't end well for the hunk" But before I could even voice it, he blurred again.

It became a blood bath, it didn't matter who, he killed them. 

Body parts flew through the air like when children blow bubbles in there backyard.

people were trying to run for the only exist, twelve men with a death wish stayed to delay him. it didn't matter. within seconds they started screaming for mercy, he knew they wouldn't stand a chance and cut off there legs.

He went for the non fighters. They didn't even last thirty seconds. no one managed to escape.

Sounds of groans were the only thing suggesting to life in here. He walked back over to those who tried to delay him as though he was having a stroll through a city.

He walked to one, grabbed them by the hair and threw them into the air. He started screaming then was silenced with a hand to the heart. Proving why he's called the Devil's Lance.

Walking to another one he repeated the same thing but instead uses his katana, he held up a full grown man with his katana.

Repeating a pattern of using either his hand or katana he finished off the rest and silenced filled the room.

Two were left in the arena, I and him.

I didn't move when he approached, the was no need I was going to die. I saw what happened to those who tried resisting.

With him so close to me now I watch how the blood dripped from his hair, the smell of iron wafted from him. And as though he was surrounded by thick red smoke it all painted a eerie picture.

staring into his impassive purple eyes I see myself.

'He's beautiful' Was my last thought as I took notice of the katana that had pierced from my neck to my skull in an upwards fashion.

-General POV-

A figure emerged from the shadows of an alleyway, moving with eerie precision. The couple walking passing by didn't have time to register its presence before a swift slash to their throats ended their lives. The figure stepped over the bodies without pause, continuing its path.

Occasionally, it would stop, disappearing into another darkened alley. Blood-curdling screams echoed, brief and horrific, before being swallowed by silence. Moments later, the figure would reemerge, its form now drenched in more blood than before.

The rampage continued uninterrupted until the first light of dawn touched the horizon. As if repelled by the sunlight, the figure vanished, like a vampire retreating.

There were no headlines or reports of the grisly incident—no witnesses, no survivors, except for the lifeless couple found in the alley. The police assumed they had fallen victim to the same killer the town whispered about, the one rumored to prowl the streets after dark.

For three more nights, under the watch of the full moon, the figure returned. Each night, it unleashed terror on the city, the violence ceasing only when the sun rose again. Bodies were left in its wake, but no clues, no signs of its origin—just blood and death.

On the fourth night, after slaughtering another group of underground bidders and figters, the figure made its way across a bridge. Without warning, it stopped, swayed, then collapsed into the shallow river below.

For the first time, it spoke, its voice rasping through the darkness.

"Why does my body hurt so pluming much?! And where the hell am I?!"

-Ryou POV-

"Why does my body hurt so pluming much?! And where the hell am I?!" that was the words I spoke after getting out of that hellhole. 

The next memories that flooded back hit me like a truck, violent, graphic, and nauseating. I doubled over, vomiting, only to find myself dry-heaving as though I hadn't eaten in days. My body shook, not just from the horror of it, but from the realization that I'd somehow survived the unimaginable.

I caught my reflection in the moonlit water below. Dirty. Bloody. My face, once clean and composed, was now exhausted and hollow, shadowed by the events I couldn't fully recall. Turns out, drinking from the Blood River was both a good and a bad idea, a gamble that had paid off, but at what cost?

{MC face update}

"First things first, I need to get back to my apartment," I muttered, pushing myself to my feet. My legs were shaky, barely able to find solid footing beneath me, but I managed to stumble forward. Luckily, I wasn't too far from my apartment. Each step felt like it I was tied to a bus, but I pressed on, determined.

Now it was time to piece together the madness. What was I thinking? Going to an arena while I was attempting something so reckless? It was beyond me. Maybe I thought the fighter would knock me out of whatever insanity I had triggered if things went south. Or maybe I was just chasing chaos.

And then, there was the Blood River. What happened in there… it wasn't what I expected. Strange didn't even begin to cover it.

-Scene change to when Ryou drank the blood-

As I drank the blood, nothing happened at first, so in a lapse of judgment, I did the dumbest thing imaginable—I shoved my entire head into the Blood River.

That's when I realized how stupid that was. Beneath the crimson surface, the sharp end of a dagger hovered dangerously close to my widened eye. My mind raced. Thousands—no, millions—of swords in all shapes and sizes floated below, suspended in the river. My only guess was that these blades were manifestations of those slain by Muramasa, or perhaps replicas born from the souls he had claimed.

I jerked my head to the side, avoiding the dagger, but I didn't stop. Instead, I resumed drinking the blood. As if sensing my desperation, it started to flow into my mouth, down my throat, with a force that felt unstoppable. I should've been repulsed. I should've felt something—disgust, horror—but instead, it felt right. Deep down, I knew I was crossing some sort of moral boundary, but I couldn't stop. Not when I was so close to what I craved.

Strength.

The power to rip apart my enemies, to shred them into pieces, to spill their insides while they begged for mercy. For their lives. For their families. For mothers, fathers to beg to spare their Chil-No! This isn't what I want! I don't want to be a mindless butcher! I'm after something else. I want to see gods fall from their thrones and their Ichor to fall on me! No, stop! My thoughts spiraled out of control, dark and twisted. My sense of self was slipping.

Who am I? What am I?

I am... I am...

...

...

'The one who would be great'

That's not for me, no one has ever said that.

'I am the greatest blade ever forged!' 

There are so many blades here so that wouldn't matter would it?

'Then Don't get hit'

Who would hit me here?

"For ages, men waged their lives upon those forged hunks of iron. To all those before me that formed the history of the blade...thank you."

That's voice sounds old, wise and so kind.

'You have the weakest willpower I've ever seen'

You don't even know who I am creepy voice!

'Ryou'

Mura... That rusty old blade always with me even in death aren't you?. His voice grounded me. With that, I yanked my head out of the blood, gasping for air I hadn't even realized I needed.

Sitting there, staring up at the blood-red sky, I took stock of what I had just done. And what it did to me. I felt revitalized, like someone had pumped caffeine into my veins. My senses were heightened, my body buzzing with strength and purpose.

I stood up, finally ready to leave this place. For the first time since coming here, I smiled. I pictured Mura—old, rusted, but revered by the other blades in the river like some mythical warrior on a cloud.

'Not rusty.'

The whisper of his voice made me chuckle, and with that, I returned to reality, greeted by the moonlight and the overwhelming soreness in my body.

Sore as fu-

-Present time-

Arriving back at my apartment was a struggle. The apartment manager paled at the sight of me, taking a step back as if I were a monster. I shot him a stink eye and brushed past, ignoring his concern.

I tossed Muramasa onto my bed, feeling a strange sense of comfort in the old blade's presence, before heading straight for the shower. The hot water was a welcome relief, washing away the grime and blood that clung to me. Once I was done, I didn't even bother getting dressed; I raided the fridge, grabbing anything I could find—raw or otherwise—before collapsing onto my bed.

As I drifted off to sleep, one thought lingered in my mind: my goal. A purpose for this world that I would accomplish.

What was it?

To be revered as the—

The sweet release of sleep approached before I could finish the thought.