The Philosophy of Blades

 
The debate raged for three hours.
Akira stood in the center of the circular chamber, feeling like a specimen under seven microscopes, each examining him through a different philosophical lens. The representatives didn't speak *to* him so much as *about* him, dissecting his stated conviction like theologians arguing over scripture.
"His rejection of inherent meaning aligns with our understanding," Nihilism's fading representative said, their voice like wind through empty rooms. "He simply hasn't accepted the final step—that constructed meaning is still illusion."
"Nonsense." Faith's glowing form brightened. "He seeks meaning through will because he intuitively understands that will itself points toward something greater. He simply hasn't found faith yet."
"You're both missing the point," Freedom's ever-shifting representative interjected. "He values *choice*. That's what matters. The content of the choice is secondary to the act of choosing itself."
Order's armored woman shook her head with mechanical precision. "Choice without structure is chaos. His philosophy requires a framework to choose *within*—he just doesn't realize it yet."
Desire's beautiful form circled Akira like a predator. "He creates meaning through commitment. That's desire embodied—the hunger to make something matter through force of wanting."
"Or," Despair's chained youth said softly, "he constructs meaning precisely because he's felt its absence. His philosophy is a response to suffering, not transcendence of it."
Truth's crystalline body refracted their words. "Empirically, his stated position is internally consistent but practically unsustainable. One cannot maintain conviction in constructed meaning while simultaneously aware of the construction. The cognitive dissonance will collapse his philosophy under scrutiny."
Akira's head spun. Each argument had merit. Each interpretation contained partial truth. And that was precisely the problem—they were all *partly* right, which meant they could all claim ownership of his conviction.
Reina, standing beside him, whispered: "You need to say something. If you let them define you, you lose agency in your own philosophy."
She was right.
Akira took a breath and spoke, his voice cutting through the debate.
"You're all looking for ways my conviction fits your framework. But that's not how this works." The Mark of Silence pulsed as he spoke, lending weight to his words. "Yes, I value choice—but not as an absolute good. Yes, I acknowledge meaninglessness—but I don't surrender to it. Yes, I respond to suffering, desire structure, seek truth, and commit through faith in my own agency."
He turned slowly, meeting each representative's gaze.
"My philosophy doesn't belong in any of your boxes because it's deliberately *between* them. I believe meaning is constructed *and* real. That certainty is dangerous *and* necessary. That we create value *and* discover it through creation. The contradiction is the point—it's how humans actually experience existence."
Silence fell.
Then Nihilism's representative laughed—a sound like dust settling. "Clever. He claims paradox as conviction. But paradox cannot sustain power. Eventually, reality will force him to choose coherence."
"Unless," Desire's representative said thoughtfully, "his power comes from holding contradictions in tension. The Silence that negates false certainty while preserving authentic doubt."
Order's representative stood abruptly. "This is pointless. Philosophy that won't commit to consistent principles is just sophisticated cowardice. The Sovereign will hear my report." She turned to Akira. "You have one week. Either align with a Sovereign, or we will treat you as a threat to all seven philosophies. Neutrality is not an option in Astraeon."
"That sounds like an ultimatum," Akira said, feeling his Mark flare defensively.
"It's a courtesy." Order's representative moved toward the door. "Be grateful for it."
She left.
One by one, the other representatives departed, each offering cryptic warnings or invitations. Freedom's representative winked—"Find me if you want real choice"—before dissolving into wind. Faith's glow dimmed as she whispered, "I'll pray for your revelation." Despair's chained youth simply smiled sadly, as if Akira's suffering was already written.
Finally, only Nihilism's fading figure remained.
"Akira Kurose," they said, their form barely visible. "You interest our Sovereign. Not because you might join us, but because you might *become* us. The Mark of Silence erodes identity with each use. Eventually, you'll be empty enough to understand true meaninglessness." They began to dissolve. "We'll be waiting when you arrive at nothing."
Then Akira was alone with Reina in the empty chamber.
"Well," she said, gears clicking nervously. "That went better than expected."
"Better? They gave me a week to choose slavery or death."
"They gave you a week to prepare." Reina's expression was serious. "Order doesn't make idle threats. If you don't align or prove yourself strong enough to stay neutral, they'll send their best warriors. And the other Sovereigns will watch to see if you survive—your survival will be proof of your conviction's strength."
Akira slumped against the wall. "So I have seven days to become powerful enough that seven demigods decide I'm not worth killing."
"Yes."
"That's impossible."
"Probably." Reina adjusted her clockwork neck. "But Daisuke believes in you. Yuki believes in you. Even Grayson, who believes in nothing beyond good food, thinks you have potential. So maybe—maybe—you can surprise everyone."
"Or I'll die trying."
"At least you'll die as yourself. In Astraeon, that's not nothing."
---
Akira returned to The Hollow Reprieve near midnight.
The tavern was quieter now, just a few late-night drinkers nursing glowing beverages and existential crises. Grayson was cleaning tables with two hands while cooking with the other two.
"How'd it go?" the massive man asked.
"I have a week to get strong or get dead."
"Ah. The usual timeline." Grayson didn't seem surprised. "Daisuke's waiting for you in the training yard. Said you'd need to work through stress."
Akira found Daisuke exactly where promised—standing in the courtyard under three-moon light, his sword of questions already drawn.
"Reina sent word," Daisuke said without preamble. "You're on a clock now. So we accelerate your training."
"How? I can barely control the Mark. I've lost—" Akira checked his memory, felt the gaps, "—fourteen memories so far. How am I supposed to get strong enough to survive an assassination attempt from Order's champions in seven days?"
"By learning to fight without just negating." Daisuke moved into a ready stance. "Your Gift is powerful, but it's not your only weapon. You have intelligence, creativity, and the philosophical understanding to exploit others' convictions. We're going to teach you how to fight like a philosopher."
"What does that even mean?"
"It means we fight with ideas made physical. Every strike carries an argument. Every defense is a rebuttal. Every technique is a logical proof written in motion." Daisuke's sword hummed. "I fight by asking questions that create doubt. You fight by denying certainty. Both are intellectual approaches to combat. Now—attack me."
Akira hesitated, then lunged forward awkwardly.
Daisuke sidestepped with minimal movement. "Why did you attack?"
"You told me to."
"No. *Why* did you attack? What was your intent? Your goal?"
"To... hit you?"
"Aimless. Combat without philosophy is just violence." Daisuke's sword flicked out, stopping at Akira's throat. "Again. But this time, attack with conviction. Decide *why* you're striking and let that purpose guide your motion."
Akira tried again. This time, he thought: *I'm testing his defense. I want to see how he responds.*
The difference was subtle but immediate—his movement had direction, intention.
Daisuke parried easily but nodded. "Better. You had purpose, even if execution was poor. That's the foundation. In Astraeon, conviction shapes reality. That includes combat. A punch thrown with genuine belief hits harder than one thrown mechanically."
They drilled for hours.
Daisuke taught him to read opponents through their philosophical stance. "Someone who believes in Order will favor geometric precision—straight lines, perfect angles. Exploit the rigidity. Someone who believes in Freedom will be unpredictable—but unpredictability means they lack consistent patterns to refine. Exploit the chaos."
Akira learned to see combat as argument.
Block wasn't just defense—it was saying "I reject your premise." Counter wasn't just offense—it was saying "Here's my alternative position." Dodge wasn't cowardice—it was saying "Your truth doesn't touch me."
And negation—the Mark of Silence—was the ultimate rebuttal: "*You don't get to exist here.*"
By dawn, Akira was bleeding from a dozen minor cuts and drenched in sweat that smelled wrong—like his body was burning something other than calories.
But he could fight. Not well, but functionally.
"Adequate," Daisuke said, sheathing his sword. "You're still too much in your head, but that's fixable with practice. How many memories?"
Akira checked. "Three more. I lost my first kiss. My graduation ceremony. And... something about my father. Not sure what."
"The cost increases as you push harder." Daisuke's expression was sympathetic. "You'll need to decide how much of your past you're willing to sacrifice for your future."
"Do I have a choice?"
"You always have a choice. That's your whole philosophy, remember?" Daisuke smiled grimly. "The question is whether you'll choose survival at any cost, or death with integrity intact."
Before Akira could respond, Yuki burst into the courtyard.
"We have a problem," she said, breathing hard. "Order's representatives weren't the only ones watching Akira at the gathering. There's a bounty."
"What kind of bounty?" Daisuke's hand went to his sword.
"The illegal kind. Someone in the Desire faction is offering crystalized conviction—a lot of it—to anyone who brings them the Silence bearer. Dead or alive, but preferably alive." Yuki's flame-marked hand flickered with agitation. "It's spreading through the underground. Every mercenary and bounty hunter in Fragment City is going to be looking for him."
"When?" Akira asked, feeling cold dread.
"Already started. There was an attempt at The Hollow Reprieve twenty minutes ago. Three hunters. Grayson is... dealing with them." Her expression suggested 'dealing' meant something violent. "We need to move you somewhere safer."
"Or," a new voice said from the courtyard entrance, "he stays and fights."
They all spun.
A woman stood in the archway—tall, with silver hair braided with tiny bells that chimed with each movement. She wore armor that looked like it was made from frozen moonlight, and her eyes were the color of distant storms. At her hip hung a sword that seemed to be carved from a single piece of obsidian.
"Who are you?" Daisuke demanded, sword half-drawn.
"Kaida. Champion of the Sovereign of Despair." She stepped into the courtyard, and the temperature dropped. Not magically—psychologically. Her presence carried weight, like being near someone who'd accepted something terrible and found peace in it. "I'm here with a proposal."
"Despair wants to recruit me?" Akira said. "That's fitting, I suppose."
Kaida laughed—a sound like wind through gravestones. "No. Despair doesn't recruit. We simply acknowledge." She looked at Akira with unsettling focus. "My Sovereign wants to test you. A formal duel. You versus me, in three days. Victory proves your conviction can sustain itself. Defeat proves it was always hollow."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then the bounty stays active, and you'll be hunted by everyone desperate enough to try. But if you accept, the Sovereign of Despair guarantees your safety until the duel. No one will touch you—violation means war with our faction." She smiled, beautiful and terrible. "Three days to prepare. A single honorable fight. And afterward, regardless of outcome, you'll have proven yourself worthy of respect—or mercy."
Daisuke moved between them. "This is a trap."
"Of course it is," Kaida agreed. "But it's an honest trap. Despair doesn't lie—we simply reveal what already exists beneath false hope." She turned to leave, then paused. "Akira Kurose. You said you believe in choosing meaning despite meaninglessness. Despair believes in acknowledging suffering despite the urge to deny it. We're not so different—we just reached opposite conclusions from the same observation."
"What observation?"
"That existence is fundamentally painful, and all philosophy is just how we cope with that fact." She began to walk away. "Three days. The Arena of Convictions. Noon, when all three moons align. Come prepared to defend your philosophy with more than words."
She disappeared into the morning light.
Silence filled the courtyard.
"Don't," Yuki said immediately. "Don't even consider it."
"She's a champion," Daisuke added. "Someone who's refined their Gift and conviction for years, possibly decades. You've had yours for less than a week. It's suicide."
But Akira was thinking.
Three days. Guaranteed safety. A chance to train without being hunted. And if he won—*if*—he'd have proven himself to at least one Sovereign's satisfaction. The others would be forced to acknowledge his conviction was genuine.
And if he lost... well, death was always a possibility anyway.
"How strong is she?" he asked.
"Strong enough that I wouldn't fight her without preparation," Daisuke admitted. "Her Gift is the Blade of Sorrow—it cuts not just flesh but emotion. Every wound she inflicts carries psychic weight. She makes you *feel* the futility of resistance, the inevitability of loss. Most opponents surrender before they're actually defeated."
"But she can be beaten?"
"Theoretically. If your conviction is strong enough to resist her emotional assault while still fighting effectively." Daisuke met his eyes. "But Akira—you barely understand your own Gift. Three days isn't enough time."
"It's the time I have." Akira felt the Mark pulse in agreement. "And she's right about one thing—running just delays the inevitable. Eventually, I'll have to prove my conviction can sustain itself under pressure. Might as well be against an opponent who's at least being honest about wanting to break me."
Yuki grabbed his arm. "This is insane. You could die. Really die—not just lose memories, but cease existing entirely."
"I know." Akira looked at her, then Daisuke. "But if I spend my life running from every threat, what's the point of having conviction at all? My whole philosophy is about choosing meaning through commitment. Time to prove I believe it."
Daisuke studied him for a long moment. Then, slowly, nodded.
"Alright. If you're committed to this, then we train. Seriously. No sleep, minimal rest, total focus. We have seventy-two hours to prepare you for someone who should absolutely destroy you." He drew his sword. "Yuki—inform Grayson and Reina. We'll need resources. Food that strengthens conviction, maybe equipment that can amplify his Gift."
"On it." Yuki ran off, her flame-mark blazing.
Daisuke turned back to Akira. "This is going to hurt. Not just physically—philosophically. I'm going to attack everything you believe, force you to defend your conviction under the worst possible conditions. Because that's what Kaida will do, except with a blade that cuts your soul."
"I'm ready."
"No, you're not. But you will be." Daisuke's sword hummed to life. "First lesson in fighting a Despair champion: understanding that suffering isn't the opposite of meaning—it's the forge where meaning is tested. She'll try to prove your philosophy is just sophisticated avoidance. You need to prove it's genuine acceptance."
"How?"
"By hurting. By continuing to choose your conviction even when it costs everything. By demonstrating that constructed meaning can survive deconstruction." Daisuke moved into stance. "Now. Attack me like you believe you can win. And don't stop until you actually do, or until you genuinely accept that you can't."
Akira raised his hands—empty, weaponless—and felt the Mark of Silence respond.
Three days.
Seventy-two hours to transform from confused philosophy student into warrior-philosopher capable of surviving a duel with a champion who'd weaponized suffering itself.
It should have been impossible.
But Akira Kurose had built his entire conviction on the idea that meaning existed precisely because humans committed to impossible things.
Time to prove it.
He attacked.
And Daisuke met him with a question sharp as any blade: "Why do you fight?"
The answer would determine everything.
---