Twenty-Eight Years Later

The world had changed.

Once, the land had been ruled by the way of the sword — a time when samurai upheld their honor through blood and spirit. But twenty-eight years had passed since the fall of the ancient clans, and the name Kyushiba had become nothing more than a fading legend whispered in the winds of Tenraishu.

Now, a new age had dawned — one where the samurai’s soul had evolved.

Rolling hills stretched far into the horizon. Mist clung to ancient forests and rivers that sparkled beneath the morning sun. Castles of forgotten lords stood tall like sleeping giants, their banners faded yet proud. Among them, the world thrummed with a quiet pulse — the presence of something divine, something supernatural.

As the sun rose higher, the view shifted to the heart of this world — a sprawling village encircled by towering walls and tiled rooftops glinting in gold. At its center stood a colossal fortress-academy, its entrance adorned with red and white banners bearing the mark of the Kensei Rings: a circular emblem pierced by a single katana.

The Samurai Academy of Tenraishu — the cradle of the new generation.

Inside its gates walked hundreds of young aspirants, dressed in training robes and carrying wooden swords at their sides. Some chatted nervously, others walked with stern resolve. It was the day of the Entrance Exam, the first step toward earning the title of “Samurai.”

And among the sea of faces, one young man stood quietly at the back of the line.

- Ryouma Kisaragi

Eighteen years old.Unkempt black hair that swayed lightly with the wind.Sharp brown eyes — quiet, yet restless — that seemed to carry the weight of hesitation and hidden strength.

He wore a plain black kimono tied with a grey sash, simple and unadorned. His stance was relaxed, but his gaze wandered, studying the others around him. Some were already practicing their abilities — sparks of flame danced between palms, water coiled like ribbons in the air, and gusts of wind whipped around focused expressions.

> So… this is where samurai are made, Ryouma thought, swallowing quietly. Everyone looks so strong already.


A voice suddenly cut through the hum of the crowd.

“Hey! You, with the dead eyes — are you lost or what?”

Ryouma turned.A tall, broad-shouldered boy with messy red hair and a scar down his cheek grinned at him with a mocking glint.

“You here for the exam too?” the boy asked, smirking. “You sure you can even hold a sword?”

Ryouma met his gaze, unfazed. “I guess we’ll find out, won’t we?”

The red-haired boy’s grin faltered for a moment, his pride stung — but before he could retort, a thunderous voice silenced the courtyard.

- The Arrival of Jinzo Takasugi

Boots struck the stone pathway with slow, heavy rhythm.

The crowd turned as a man approached — tall, broad, and commanding an aura so heavy it bent the air around him. His hair was long and grey, his face marked by a single scar that crossed diagonally over one piercing eye. His black-and-blue haori fluttered with each step, and on his back gleamed the kanji for “Justice” (正義) — bold and unwavering.

It was Jinzo Takasugi, the Head Captain of the Samurai.

Instantly, every whisper died. Even the arrogant red-haired youth stiffened.

Jinzo’s eyes swept over the candidates — cold, sharp, and all-seeing. When he spoke, his voice rumbled like distant thunder.

“Listen up, you little whelps,” he began, his tone firm and unrelenting. “This is not a place for the weak or the foolish. You’ve come here to become samurai — but only those with resolve, discipline, and the strength to endure will earn that title.”

His gaze sharpened. “If you think this is some kind of game… walk away now.”

Silence.No one moved.A faint smirk touched Jinzo’s lips.

“No one? Good.” His voice dropped lower, colder. “Then let’s begin.”



- The Exam: The Kensei Rings and the Kontantou

The candidates were led into a vast courtyard beneath the academy’s main tower. Statues of ancient sword saints lined the perimeter — silent witnesses to the trial about to begin.

Instructors stood at the front, each holding a gleaming metallic ring carved with intricate kanji — the Kensei Rings, relics said to channel the spirit of the sword saints themselves.

“The first test,” an instructor announced, his voice echoing, “is to forge your Kontantou — your spirit-forged katana. Only by channeling your essence through the Kensei Ring can your true blade take form. Remember: your sword is your soul.”

One by one, the candidates stepped forward.

Each touched the ring, and in bursts of light, their swords appeared — one wreathed in flames, another formed from shimmering water, a third crackling with electricity. The courtyard glowed with the colors of power and pride.

Then came Ryouma’s turn.

He stepped forward silently and placed his hand upon the cold metal of the Kensei Ring.

For several seconds — nothing.

Whispers rippled through the crowd.“Heh, maybe he doesn’t have any spirit at all.”“Pathetic…”

Ryouma shut his eyes. He could feel something deep within — a pulse buried in darkness. He reached for it. The air around him began to hum.

Suddenly, the ring blazed with an intense white light — brighter than any before. The ground trembled lightly, wind swirling around him.

When the light dimmed, the weapon in his hand gleamed black as night — a sleek, jet-black katana spawn. 

An instructor’s eyes widened.“…A black blade,” he murmured, astonished. “That’s… rare indeed.”

The courtyard fell silent. Every whisper turned to awe.

- The Combat Trial

By noon, the air was thick with heat and anticipation. Candidates now faced each other in combat — their freshly forged Kontantou (katanas) clashing in bursts of power. Sparks of fire and wind lit up the courtyard as the exam continued.

Ryouma’s opponent was the red-haired candidate from earlier.

The boy smirked, his blade flickering with crimson fire. “Let’s see if that fancy black sword of yours is worth anything.”

The moment the signal rang, he lunged forward, his blade cutting arcs of flame through the air. Ryouma moved swiftly — dodging, parrying, every step deliberate. His movements were neither rushed nor hesitant, just precise.

The red-haired boy swung harder, flame roaring — but as the fire touched Ryouma’s blade, the heat dimmed, drawn into the black steel as if consumed.

“What the—?!” the boy gasped. “His sword’s… absorbing the heat?!”

Ryouma’s expression didn’t change. He stepped in, a blur of motion. One clean strike — swift and soundless — sent the opponent’s blade flying from his grasp.

Silence.

“Efficient. Precise. Lethal,” murmured the instructor.

Ryouma lowered his blade, calm as ever.


– The Moonlit Resolve

That night, the academy lay quiet beneath the glow of the full moon.
Ryouma stood alone on the training grounds, his black Kontantou glimmering faintly in the moonlight. The night wind brushed against his hair as he swung his blade again and again — each strike sharper, cleaner, more controlled.
Sweat rolled down his neck, but his eyes never wavered.
> I will become stronger, he thought, gripping the hilt tightly.No matter what it takes.


The moonlight caught the edge of his sword, gleaming like a promise.
And thus began the story of Ryouma Kisaragi. 

To be continue...