The ashes of the canyon still clung to their boots as Kael and Kitsune crossed the last ridge and beheld a sight that made them slow their steps—a town nestled in a shallow valley of red stone and glassy black hills. Dunehollow. A frontier town built on shattered earth, known for its rare minerals, weathered souls, and infamous silence. Even in the soft morning light, it looked like a place that didn't forget pain.
"Civilization," Kitsune muttered, adjusting his travel-worn haori. The wind tousled his silver hair, revealing the furred ears that twitched at every sound. "Let's restock, maybe find a place with a working bath."
Kael nodded, but his thoughts were elsewhere. The line had returned. Echoing in his mind like a whisper woven into the wind.
Perception shapes reality.
The words had followed him ever since the Ashglass Canyon, when he'd found the scroll and had the vision. At first, they were fleeting—now, they came with a weight. A challenge.
---
Dunehollow was a town that didn't speak unless spoken to.
Cobblestone streets carved from obsidian. Roofs shingled with ashglass. The people moved with a quiet urgency, hardened by the wastelands that surrounded them. Kael and Kitsune found a small inn at the town's edge—The Hollow Hearth—run by an old woman with eyes like cracked mirrors and a pet cindercat that hissed at anyone with a Crest.
"Room's yours for a night," she said, glancing at Kael a moment longer than comfort allowed. "Soulborne don't sleep easy, but the beds are soft."
They settled in quickly. Kitsune said he'd handle supplies and check for any rumors of Wraithborn in the region.
"Don't get into trouble," he said before disappearing into the heart of Dunehollow.
Kael went the opposite direction, to the quiet plains outside the glassy ridgeline where the land bowed like a blade waiting to be drawn.
---
Training began with silence.
He called forth Kurozan—the Soul Blade shimmered into his grip with a sound like breath held too long. He drew a circle in the dust and began practicing the new form he had seen within the Arx Memoria's forbidden scrolls.
Tenebris Kenjutsu form IV: Mirage Blade.
The principle was elusive. It wasn't about speed or deception, but belief. One had to act not with intent, but with certainty—move as though the blade had already struck, or dodged, or parried.
Hours passed. The sun arced overhead. Sweat slicked Kael's back. Cuts lined his arms from failed attempts to channel the mirage of motion.
He tried again. Closed his eyes.
Perception shapes reality.
He stepped forward—not fast, but with the belief that he had already passed the invisible attacker's guard. Kurozan whispered in his hand. A faint shimmer lingered behind his movement.
There.
He had almost done it.
---
The attack came at dusk.
Kitsune was still away. Kael was alone in the open, focused on the blade, when the glassy wind shifted and shadows moved against the ridgeline. Four figures. Lightless armor. No Crests.
Assassins.
He sensed them a second too late—one darted in, blade slicing toward his side.
Kael reacted not by seeing—but by believing.
He had already dodged.
The blade passed through his mirage. Dust scattered where he'd stood a heartbeat ago. Kael's real form was two paces left, Kurozan already in motion.
The first assassin fell with a cry as Kael cut low across the knees.
The others came in a blur—silent, precise, efficient. Not Wraithborn. Human. Trained.
Kael's footwork danced between Mirage and instinct. He moved not as someone defending himself, but as someone rewriting cause and effect.
Another attacker feinted, aiming for Kael's throat. Kael stepped in, believing the strike had already missed—and it did. His blade surged upward in a rising arc, slicing through steel and cloth.
Pain flared as a third assassin grazed his shoulder. His blood sparked against the ashglass ground.
Three down.
The fourth assassin hesitated, recognizing something ancient and terrible in the boy's stance. Kurozan pulsed, alive with Kael's will.
The Mirage Blade shimmered. Kael struck.
Silence returned.
---
Kitsune returned that night with a new satchel of rations and an old frown.
He smelled blood before he saw the bodies.
Kael was seated in the training ring, meditating beside the corpses wrapped in cloaks.
"I said not to get into trouble."
Kael opened his eyes slowly. "They came to me."
Kitsune's eyes narrowed. He said nothing, but his silence was louder than scolding.
Later, after Kael's wounds were cleaned and the assassins' gear examined, Kitsune spoke in low tones over a bowl of stew.
"Someone knows who you are—or who you might be."
Kael didn't answer. He couldn't.
He stared into the firelight, the line echoing again.
Perception shapes reality.
He had used it—and it had saved his life.
But it frightened him.
How much of what he believed… was true? And how much was shaped by something deeper? The Void Crest pulsed faintly beneath his skin, hidden beneath wrappings and willpower.
Kitsune watched him from across the table. His eyes were not accusing. Not yet. But suspicious. Searching.
"That blade style," he finally said. "That wasn't something you pick up in a library."
Kael didn't meet his gaze. "It isn't."
Outside, the Dunehollow wind blew through glass trees, scattering dust and echoes.
Somewhere, far away, the Obsidian Tower stirred.
Kael was beginning to understand:
The blade was not his greatest weapon.
His belief was.