The tension between them was suffocating. The forest air, still distorted from Heaven’s Pulse, crackled as the wind danced wildly between the warriors. Across from him, Shigure’s stance was absolute—feet pnted, six spectral arms of Ashura shifting with an eerie fluidity around him, their presence alone cutting through the air like unseen bdes.

  And then—they moved.

  A single step from Shigure became an instantaneous vanishing act. He reappeared mid-air, a descending god of war, all six arms converging at once, a flurry of curved sshes raining down on Akira. Blindingly fast. Perfectly executed. Lethal.

  Akira barely had time to react, but due to the distortion—he had just enough time to counter.

  The drum pulsed—

  BOOM—a massive shockwave erupting outward, shattering trees, sending debris flying. The force met Shigure’s attack head-on, but the swordsman’s technique didn’t falter.

  He’s denying the distortion—?!

  Akira pivoted, shifting his body to avoid a direct csh, but one spectral bde carved into his side, blood spraying into the air. He clenched his teeth, twisting Raikou, and unleashed Thunder Waltz—a rhythmic burst of concussive force that exploded outward in rippling waves.

  Shigure didn’t move.

  Instead, he let the force wash over him, his arms maneuvering fluidly to absorb the impact, shifting his center of gravity just enough to keep advancing. His smirk widened.

  “I was told you’d be stronger than this, Akira. They said it was the only way you could’ve made it out alive back then.”

  Akira exhaled sharply, his mind already calcuting the next move. He couldn’t just brute force through this—Shigure’s skill was overwhelming. This wasn’t a brawler. This was a tactician.

  Then I’ll have to outthink him.

  Akira smmed Raikou against the ground. Crackling thunder surged through the terrain—Lightning Veil.

  Electricity surged through his body, enhancing his movements. The world blurred as he rocketed forward, his form weaving erratically, each step charged with erratic surges of speed.

  In an instant, he was on Shigure, Raikou twisting in his grip.

  DOOM—DOOM—DOOM—

  Three consecutive strikes, each impact reverberating through the air like a war drum.

  Shigure countered with inhuman precision—each spectral bde intercepting the strikes, redirecting them just enough to reduce their impact. Akira barely had time to pull away before a punishing kick from one of Shigure’s ethereal arms sent him flying backward, crashing through a tree. Blood dripped from his mouth as he struggled to his feet.

  “You’re not bad, though. I can see why you were revered in your days.”

  Shigure rolled his neck, his six arms flexing unnaturally.

  “But I see it now—why Mori didn’t care about you leaving. Why he only took your arm and not your life. You may be strong, but compared to what Kuroda can turn us into… YOU’RE NOTHING!”

  Akira spat blood, eyes narrowing.

  “Are all the Musabori elites as chatty as you?”

  Shigure lunged again—faster this time.

  Akira barely lifted Raikou in time before the next strike connected. It didn’t matter.

  A spectral hand grabbed his wrist. Another caught his ankle.

  Two more wrapped around his throat.

  And then—Shigure squeezed.

  Akira’s vision blurred—pressure crushing his windpipe, bones creaking under the strain. Lightning Veilsputtered, flickering out.

  “ARE ALL OLD HOJU AS DEAD AS YOU?!” Shigure yelled.

  Akira needed something. Now.

  His hand clenched Raikou. His lips parted.

  “Release—.”

  Silence.

  And then—“Raikou.”

  The drum shattered into raw Tamashkii energy. A pulse of golden light erupted from Akira’s severed arm, spreading outward as a spectral arm of pure lightning surged to life—but Shigure did not let go.

  He didn’t even flinch.

  Instead, his grip tightened.

  Akira’s vision blurred. His windpipe felt like it was colpsing under the force. His bronze gauntlet creaked, lightning sputtering, dimming.

  He was dying.

  He let out a scream of pain.

  ?

  Across the battlefield, Ren stirred.

  The world was still spinning in his vision, his body wracked with exhaustion. The st thing he remembered was the explosion, the battle—his body getting flung like debris from the sheer shockwaves. His wounds screamed in protest as he slowly pushed himself up, his arms shaking beneath him.

  Then—he heard it.

  Akira’s guttural, choking scream.

  A sound he had never heard from him before.

  His eyes darted to the battlefield, and what he saw sent a cold jolt through his veins.

  Akira—his arm fully manifested in a ghostly form, its power crackling, radiating sheer Tamashkii—and yet, he was losing.

  Shigure had him in a death grip, completely unfazed, squeezing the life out of him.

  Ren’s fingers trembled. Move, damn it.

  He had nothing left.

  Move.

  The cube on his bracelet gave a slight crackle.

  One shot.

  His body was screaming in protest, his Tamashkii running on fumes, but if he timed this right…

  With the st ounce of his strength, Ren pleaded to his bracelet.

  “Take Form—Tsukuyomi.”

  The cube’s power surged, but like before… the energy dimmed quickly.

  “Half Crescent!”

  A sudden arc of silver light tore through the battlefield.

  A pressurized ssh of pure force cut toward Shigure’s back, closing in fast.

  Shigure’s instincts fred. Even through the chaos, even through his iron grip on Akira, he felt it. An incoming ssh—he had to react. His body tensed, his grip loosening just slightly.

  He pivoted just enough to avoid a direct hit, but in that split second—Shigure’s grip faltered.

  Just for a second…

  But that second was all Akira needed.

  His new arm—flickering, unstable, but radiating unimaginable power—moved on instinct.

  He grabbed Shigure’s face.

  And then—HE DROVE HIM INTO THE EARTH.

  ?

  Ren fell to one knee, chest heaving, eyes barely able to stay open.

  “End this thing, Akira.”

  Then Ren colpsed.

  The entire forest quaked as a thunderous explosion erupted from the impact. A crater formed beneath them, crackling lightning devouring the air.

  The sheer force shattered Shigure’s hold, his spectral arms dissipating momentarily from the overload.

  For the first time—Shigure coughed blood profusely.

  But Akira wasn’t done.

  His grip tightened, his spectral arm buzzing with unstable force. He lifted Shigure again, electricity consuming the battlefield.

  “You wanted to see why I was revered?”

  He clenched his fist.

  “Here it is.”

  And then—he punched him.

  No theatrics. No technique.

  Just a raw, explosive haymaker enhanced by the full force of his Tamashkii.

  The sky itself seemed to break.

  Shigure’s body unched through the air, crashing through trees, shattering rock. He hit the mountainside with a deafening CRACK, embedding deep into the stone.

  Silence.

  For a long, long moment, Akira stood in the smoldering crater, chest rising and falling in ragged breaths. His spectral arm flickered, the unstable energy coursing wildly.

  And then—the pain set in.

  His body convulsed. He stumbled.

  His arm—his real arm—felt like it was tearing apart from the inside.

  The strain of the Release state was consuming him.

  He fell to one knee, coughing violently, his vision swimming.

  From the rubble, Shigure staggered forward, barely conscious, one eye swollen shut. He wiped blood from his mouth, ughing breathlessly.

  “Not bad… old man.”

  The wind came to a halt—

  And then—a gaping hole pierced through Shigure’s stomach.

  His body slumped, colpsing face-first into the dirt.

  Akira barely had the strength to watch him fall.

  His Heavens Pulse ended the fight, but the strain from releasing his form was still too much.

  He swayed, his spectral arm fading into nothing, the backsh fully hitting him.

  Even if I won…

  His vision blurred.

  The world around him dimmed.

  And then—Akira colpsed.