Sleep refused to come.
Samara lay in a massive bed of velvet sheets and dragon-down cushions, yet her body twisted beneath the covers like it was made of wire. Her fingers ached. Her skin buzzed with something unseen.
Her thoughts weren't on the lavish room or even the fresh linens they'd changed twice today, likely out of fear of her. No—her mind was in the snow.
With Ayato.
"He's probably fine," she whispered to herself, staring at the gilded ceiling. "He's… annoying. And infuriating. But strong."
Still, her stomach churned. Her chest felt too tight. The same voice that once guided bullets and blades now whispered only unease.
Then she felt it.
A pull—not physical, but something older. Something within her bones.
Her feet moved before her brain caught up. Down corridors and stone stairs, through locked doors that weren't locked to her. A trail of torches lit as she passed, though no one lit them. Sumire followed behind without speaking, the soft whisper of her sandals the only indication of her presence.
The palace's heartbeat led them to the lowest level.
Before them stood an iron door sealed in golden sigils. A door older than the Empire.
It opened at her touch.
The Ancient Forge
The air inside was dry and dead—until she stepped in.
The runes ignited. The anvil pulsed. Molten lines lit up the floor like veins.
A voice, not hers, spoke within her skull:
Welcome, True Weapon Master.
Her flame tattoos flared, glowing softly under her skin. The forge exhaled, dust lifting like spirits released. Fires reawakened in the furnaces without fuel. Workbenches shimmered. Floating diagrams of long-lost weapons hovered in place.
Knowledge surged through her. Not taught—remembered.
How to craft a spear from dragon bone. A blade from stardust and iron. Runes that spoke life into steel.
It overwhelmed her.
Then her eyes lifted—just above Sumire's head.
[Level 85 – Assassin]
"What the hell?" she whispered.
Sumire raised an eyebrow.
Samara turned, rushing to a silver-framed mirror leaning in the corner. Above her head:
[Level 1 – ???]
"Figures."
But then—
[Skill Unlocked: Create]
Create – Allows the user to forge any weapon or item from materials currently held. Weapons inherit elemental traits and gain passive buffs based on user's mana affinity.
A short pause.
Cooldown: None. Duration: Permanent. Type: Skill.
Her fingers tingled.
She reached down, grasping a jagged stone from the corner of the room.
She closed her eyes.
"Create: Katana."
The stone vibrated, reshaped, and hardened into a long, curved blade. Elegant. Balanced. The edge gleamed with magic. Runes shimmered along its spine, glowing faintly.
Sumire's eyes finally widened. "That… is not normal."
Samara grinned. "You're telling me."
Then came the screaming.
The North Wall Breach
Chaos erupted.
The alarm bell tolled like a funeral drum. Horns wailed. The sky in the north turned red. Smoke rose.
A guard burst in shouting, "The gate! Goblins—and demons! The city's being overrun!"
Sumire stepped forward immediately. "You will stay here. I'll—"
"No," Samara said.
"You are untrained. You'll die."
"Then I die standing."
Before Sumire could stop her, Samara charged up the stairs, katana in hand.
First Blood
The streets were ablaze. Women screamed. Soldiers clashed with screeching goblins. Buildings toppled.
Samara ran through it all, hair wild, heart hammering.
A goblin lunged.
She swung.
The blade scraped its neck—too shallow. Not enough force. Her stance was off. Her grip slipped—thanks to the damn sweat and the even worse D-cup disaster bouncing off her center of balance. She staggered back a step, muttering, "Boobs are a battlefield."
The goblin shrieked and swung its club.
Sumire appeared in a blink, slicing through it with surgical grace.
"You're swinging from the elbow," Sumire said, stepping slightly aside to avoid the blade's follow-through. She watched Samara's stance with narrowed eyes—not judgmental, but calculating. "Your footwork is wrong, your center's collapsing under each swing, and yet…"
She parried another goblin that lunged. "You aim well. You move like someone who's killed before."
Samara flinched but didn't answer.
Sumire didn't press. She sliced another throat and added, "If your body ever catches up to your instinct… I'd worry for anyone standing in front of you.". "You need to plant your feet."
"I've had this body for a week!" Samara shouted, already summoning another weapon. She bit her tongue before adding more—before saying something she shouldn't. Every instinct screamed to vent, to explain, to justify why her strikes were sharp but her limbs lagged behind. But she couldn't. The rule burned in her mind: no one must know.
"Create: Spear."
It formed instantly. Sleek, perfectly balanced—her mind still knew how to kill, how to target the weak point—but her body wouldn't follow. Her thrust was half a second too slow, her arm not used to the longer reach. The spear sank into the goblin's chest and bounced off a rib.
Sumire sliced the goblin down and blinked at Samara. "If your form matched your instincts, you'd be terrifying."
"I'm already terrifying," Samara panted, raising a new blade. "Just… in the wrong direction."
More demons poured through the gates.
They surrounded them.
Samara's sleeves ripped. Her shoulder stung. Her foot slipped in blood. Her elegant kimono tore across the thigh. One wrong sidestep had her nearly trip over the hem, and more than once her top slipped dangerously low—she had to yank it up mid-swing. Her internal screaming could've rivaled the goblins.
But she didn't stop.
She kept creating—blades, staffs, even shields when Sumire began to falter.
Magic burned through her, raw and wild.
They were losing ground.
Sumire turned, blades flashing. "Fall back!"
Samara shook her head. "No! I can still—"
A club crashed toward her skull.
Sumire blocked it, then slashed the attacker across the face. "You can still fight—after we regroup."
She kicked open a side gate, grabbed Samara by the wrist, and dragged her through the alley.
Behind them, fire engulfed the street.
Ash and Silence
They stopped atop a ruined tower.
Samara was bleeding. Her chest heaved. Her clothes hung in tatters. Her blade arm trembled.
"I did nothing," she whispered. "I couldn't even—"
"You stood," Sumire said.
Samara looked up.
Sumire met her eyes. "Most nobles would have run. Or begged. You stood. You swung."
Samara's eyes burned. Not from magic. From frustration.
Then she felt it.
A cold chill.
She turned.
Across the rooftops, a figure stood watching her.
Tall. Cloaked. Silent.
Their face was hidden.
But she felt it.
Hunger & Lust, towards her.
She froze.
TO BE CONTINUED