Chapter 6: obsidian blade vs Mist God

Five years had passed like wind over stone slow, relentless, wearing edges smooth but never erasing them.

The redwoods were gone. No more swaying platforms, no more drops that could swallow a man whole. Only this: endless golden grass rolling under a sky so wide it hurt to look at. 

The Plains stretched in every direction, waves of tall blades whispering secrets Marci no longer wanted to hear. 

Wind tugged at his cloak, carrying the scent of dry earth and distant rain. His boots left shallow prints that the grass swallowed almost immediately, as if the land itself refused to remember him.

He walked because standing still felt like surrender.

The settlement appeared on the horizon first as a shimmer low shapes against the sky, then details: clusters of grass-thatched roofs lashed with rope, wind chimes of bone and wood singing from every eaves, 

wooden frames half-buried in the earth like roots refusing to let go. Smoke rose thin and straight from chimneys, carried sideways by the constant breeze. 

People moved between the buildings in flowing cloaks the color of sun-bleached wheat, spears or curved blades at their hips. Nomads, perhaps, or guardians of this flat sea. No walls. No towers. 

Just open land and the quiet confidence that came from knowing the horizon would warn you of trouble long before it arrived.

Marci stepped into the outskirts.

The change was immediate.

A woman carrying a basket of dried herbs paused mid-stride. Her eyes flicked to him then away. She stepped sideways without a word, widening the path. Two children playing with wooden tops froze, then ran behind a cart, peeking out with wide eyes. 

A group of men sharpening blades at a low table glanced up once. Conversation died. One man stood slowly, hand resting on his hilt, but he didn’t draw. He just watched.

They felt it.

The Dragon Spirit, coiled tight beneath skin and bone, leaked like smoke from a cracked furnace. Wings folded so hard they ached. Legs heavy with old rage. Roar a low, constant thunder in his throat he never let out. 

Breath still fragile, still incomplete couldn’t contain it all. So it pressed outward: a weight, a pressure, a suffocating presence that made lungs work harder and hearts beat faster.

People didn’t scream or point. They simply… moved away.

Streets emptied in quiet ripples. A merchant pulled his stall cart back a few paces. An old woman gathering wind-dried laundry turned her back and hurried inside. Even the wind chimes seemed to quiet, as if the breeze itself hesitated near him.

Marci kept walking until he reached the central square open dirt ringed by low benches and a single tall pole flying a banner of woven grass dyed deep green. A few people lingered at the edges, pretending not to stare. Whispers drifted like pollen.

He stopped at the edge, hands in pockets, staring at nothing. Five years of solitude had taught him silence. Five years of training alone in forgotten valleys had taught him control. But control wasn’t erasure.

The square had almost fully cleared now. Only the wind moved freely.

Then, from the shadow beneath the banner pole, a figure stepped forward.

Cloaked in muted gray-green, hood low, a long curved blade sheathed at the hip. Posture calm, but unmistakably ready.

She stopped a respectful distance away.

“Who are you, Stranger?”

After a short pause, she spoke again, voice steady and carrying easily over the grass.

“I’m the commander of 8th Squad. Now identify yourself.”

Marci didn’t answer. His gaze stayed fixed on the horizon, jaw tight.

“Your mere presence is equal to a commander, but it’s unstable,” she continued. “People are suffocating because of it.”

Silence. The wind whipped between them, bending the grass in slow waves.

Marci turned around, cloak flaring, and started walking away.

“You can’t leave,” she said, voice sharpening just enough to cut through the breeze. “Not with that kind of strength.”

A long pause. The grass leaned farther away from him, as if even the land was listening.

“It’s dangerous to leave someone like you.”

Marci stopped. His shoulders rose, then fell.

“I’m not a threat,” he said quietly, back still to her. “And this is not a negotiation.”

The commander didn’t move.

“I won’t repeat myself,” she said, tone flat and final. “Who ARE YOU?”

Marci’s hand flexed. Light condensed in his palm then hardened.

The roar came without sound at first, a vibration that rattled the chimes on nearby roofs. Then it solidified: not the dagger from five years ago, but a sleek, 

obsidian blade, edges so dark they drank the sunlight, faint crimson veins pulsing along the fuller like angry heartbeats.

The commander’s eyes narrowed.

“I see.”

In a flash she drew her own roar manifesting as a long, elegant katana that shimmered with silver mist. The mist rolled outward from her feet, thick and living, coiling around her legs like smoke given weight.

“I see bloodshed is inevitable,” she said softly.

Marci turned fully now, facing her. He felt it the pressure coming off her wasn’t just authority. It was power, deep and controlled, the kind that had been honed for years.

“I see,” he murmured. “I can sense your power… you were suppressing your presence? I can’t hold back then.”

The air around him crackled. A low purple glow ignited at his core, spreading outward in slow, hungry pulses.

“This is my power!!”

The purple light detonated outward in a controlled explosion grass flattened in a perfect circle, wind roaring the opposite direction, the sky briefly tinted violet. 

When the light cleared, Marci stood transformed: eyes glowing soft amethyst, translucent dragon wings now edged in deep purple flame, 

scaled legs rippling with violet energy, the obsidian blade longer, sharper, humming with restrained fury.

“Ascended Dragon,” he whispered, almost to himself.

The commander watched, unflinching.

“Interesting,” she said. “You are really on a level of commander. I won’t disrespect you by holding back.”

She raised her katana high. Mist exploded from her body in a rolling wave, swallowing the square, turning the world grey and cold. When it cleared, she stood in full grey armor sleek

plates that seemed woven from living fog, long katana now wreathed in swirling vapor, eyes sharp behind a faint misty veil.

“Ascended Dragon!!” she echoed, voice ringing like distant thunder.

Marci whispered to himself, barely audible over the wind.

“I knew it. You aren't no ordinary..."

Both faced each other.

Obsidian blade against Mist Goddess.