Descendant (Muramasa x Alaya)

Descendant (One-Shot)

Descendant (One-Shot)

The workshop was enveloped in scorching heat. Senji Muramasa, bare-chested and covered in soot, hammered the incandescent steel with almost divine precision. In front of him, two leaves in process, intended for someone important, reflected the reddish light of the forge. Each stroke of the hammer resonated like a heartbeat, marking his commitment to the art that defined him. He had worked for weeks on these katanas and had not yet reached the point of perfection he demanded of himself.

Muramasa raised the red-hot leaf, examining it with a critical eye before submerging it in the water.

The steam hissed and rose into the air as the blade touched the icy water, covering the forge in a momentary cloud. Muramasa watched as the steel began to temper, his golden eyes glistening in the firelight. This was his world: hammer, fire, and metal, an eternal cycle where each blow brought steel closer to perfection and the blacksmith to the immortality of his art. Nothing else mattered.

The land of Japan was divided by the chaos of the Sengoku era, and Muramasa knew that these swords would be tools of war. But the fate of those who wielded them was not their problem. As he always said, his duty ended when the edge was finished.

The air in the workshop changed suddenly, becoming denser, as if time itself had decided to stop. Muramasa did not look up from the leaf; I was used to ignoring distractions. But then, a pale blue light lit up the room, and a voice, firm and ethereal, broke the silence.

"Senji Muramasa."

The blacksmith frowned and put the hammer aside. "If you come to buy a sword, wait your turn," he growled, turning his head slightly toward the figure that had appeared in his workshop.

Before him, a sphere of blue energy with two rings rotating its "body" floated silently, radiating an overwhelming presence.

The voice spoke again, echoing in the forge. "I'm not looking for steel. I seek to save your bloodline."

Muramasa sighed irritably. "My lineage? What nonsense. I am a blacksmith, not a nobleman with surnames to protect. If you come with speeches about destinies and prophecies, you're wasting your time."

The sphere stood still for a moment before answering, its tone unwavering. "Your blood is more important than you imagine. In the future, a descendant of yours will be key to saving humanity."

Muramasa took the sheet he was still holding and placed it on a table. He then turned completely towards the figure. His gaze, though tired, showed no fear, only a mixture of disbelief and disdain.

"Save humanity? How illogical. The only thing I can save is a piece of poorly worked steel. If anyone depends on me for anything else, they're in serious trouble."

"Without your offspring, mankind will face a great problem," the voice insisted. "Your bloodline will forge something more valuable than any sword you can create. It will be the tool that will protect millions."

Muramasa let out a short, dry laugh. "Humanity will fend for itself, as it always has. I don't need children or promises of future greatness to justify my existence."

The sphere appeared to shake slightly before emitting a flash of light that filled the workshop. When the luminosity disappeared, it was no longer a sphere that stood in front of Muramasa, but a woman with long silver-blue hair. His golden eyes seemed to pierce him, and his bearing was so elegant that he hardly looked real. She wore a light blue kimono that reflected the light of the flames, as if every fold of the fabric was alive.

Muramasa blinked, surprised for a moment, but quickly regained his composure. "Wow, it looks like this work comes with visual spectacles. Do you really expect me to be impressed with that?"