The entire room sucked away the daylight, transforming into a room with peeling wallpaper and dust.


    Muren collapsed at his desk, the aftertaste of Sakuragoka’s hostility clinging to him like a fever. Windless Paradise rumbled beneath his skin, a snake wrapped around his veins—snarling, powerful, maddeningly restrained.


    Defense? Pathetic. He craved teeth. A presence that would make lockers rattle and bullies’ blood chill.


    The ancient tome glared up at him from the desk, leather cracked like a grinning skull. His fingers twitched. Pages whispered as he flipped past familiar incantations—graceful scripts that now felt… tame. Too refined for this concrete jungle.


    Then—


    A gash in the parchment.


    A new chapter erupted, jagged and violent. The ink here wasn’t written—it was clawed into the paper. Angular, furious strokes spelled a title that seared his retinas:


    ?Pacts of the Unyielding Blade?


    His pulse spiked. The air was condensed and filled with a strong smell of iron. Diagrams sprawled like fractured bone—swords fused with runes, sigils that bled black static. This wasn’t magic. It was warfare. A manifesto for carving respect into the throats of anyone foolish enough to doubt him.


    *“Unyielding Blade”*—the words slithered into his skull, honeyed and venomous. *Cut first. Beg forgiveness never.*


    A laugh bubbled in his throat, sharp and unsteady. *Yes.* This—this was the language Sakuragoka understood. Not whispers, but screams.


    -------


    He devoured the chapter – War Spirits. Pure spirits of conflict, the embodiment of force. Battlefields, training grounds... wherever the aftermath of war lingered, they dominated. Strength, courage, unyielding determination - their essence. Offerings: weapons, armor, vows... they demanded respect and devotion.


    A jolt, not gentle like Windless Paradise, but *electric*. This was raw power. Power that would resonate in Sakuragoka. He scanned onward, breath hitching. Combat techniques bestowed by pact… Enhanced strength, reflexes honed to a razor’s edge, and then… targeted strikes.


    His gaze locked onto "Locked Jab." A spirit-granted technique. A jab, the most basic of strikes, elevated to the ultimate weapon. Precision beyond human limits, vulnerabilities laid bare, force amplified even in a flicker of motion. A simple jab… perfected into lethality. *This*. This was what he needed. Subtle, precise, and utterly deadly.


    The pact ritual details followed. Location: paramount. A place steeped in the history of battles. Offerings: substantial, respectful, martial. And a *valuable weapon* – a symbol of true commitment, the book stressed.


    Location… Sakuragoka town wasn’t exactly a war zone. Yet, a memory flickered. The old shrine… not just for tourists. Grandfather''s words echoed faintly – *memorial… soldiers… forgotten conflict.* Worth investigating.


    Offerings first. Incense, but sandalwood was too weak. He needed something… sharper, fiercer. Dragon’s Blood, yes. He knew the shop. But a *weapon*? He possessed nothing of value.


    If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.


    Grandfather''s closet... locked and off-limits. There were treasures inside. Relics of war. Helmets, medals, disabled weapons... the collection was both fascinating and disturbing. Grandfather''s prized possessions, spoken of with reverence. Would he... dare?


    Night deepened. Muren''s mother retreated to the TV’s glow. Muren moved, resolve hardening like steel. He knew the closet key’s hiding place – the hallway closet’s top shelf, within a carved wooden box. Fingers trembling, he claimed the cold key.


    The study door groaned open. Dust and aged metal flooded his senses. Moonlight painted the silent collection. Helmets – blank eyes staring. Swords – faint gleams in the dark. A museum of frozen violence.


    He moved, eyes darting. Grandfather''s obsession hung heavy in the air. He needed something valuable, respectful.


    The glass cabinet corner – knives, short swords. Center stage: a Wakizashi. Smaller than a Katana, yet a lethal blade. Leather-wrapped hilt, steel shimmering even in shadows. Grandfather’s meticulous polishing, his hushed tones of history, craftsmanship… spirit.


    This was it. The offering. Valuable. Martial. Respectful. And the thought of taking it… terrifying.


    The cabinet latch clicked, loud in the stillness. Heart hammering, he reached. Hilt cool to the touch. He lifted it. Weight surprised him – balanced, solid. The blade hissed softly from its sheath. Flawless steel, moonlight reflected like liquid silver. It felt… alive.


    He gathered other items quickly: a heavy brass incense burner, tarnished and ornate. Crimson silk, draped over a helmet stand. Dragon’s Blood incense – pungent, fierce. Backpack ready. Wakizashi sheathed, wrapped in silk, placed within. Weighty. Ominous.


    The old shrine. He biked through the quiet town, the Wakizashi a weighty presence against his back. The shrine, perched on a small rise overlooking the town, was deserted at this late hour, bathed in the pale glow of the moon. War memorials stood sentinel in the shadows, stone figures of stoic soldiers, their silent vigil spanning decades. This was the place. Heavy with history, steeped in the echoes of battles fought and lost.


    He laid out the crimson cloth on a weathered stone platform before the main shrine building. He placed the incense burner upon it, then carefully unwrapped the Wakizashi. He lit the Dragon’s Blood incense. The smoke billowed upwards.


    He presented the Wakizashi, raising the polished steel towards the silent, stone soldiers under the pale moonlight. Dragon’s Blood incense billowed, acrid and sharp, filling the sacred space. He began the chant, invoking the War Spirit, his voice echoing in the shrine’s hushed stillness.


    Suddenly, the air screamed. Not a gentle breeze, but a furious gale, a biting wind that tore at his clothes and whipped the crimson cloth around the incense burner. The Dragon’s Blood smoke thrashed like a living entity, twisting into ephemeral shapes – blades – dancing violently in the tempest. A raw, untamed power descended upon the shrine, making the ancient stones themselves seem to tremble.


    Then, it spoke.


    Not with a voice that resonated in the air, but directly within his skull. A voice of pure, unadulterated *force*. It wasn’t sound, but a *command*, hammered directly into his very being.


    <<OFFERING ACCEPTED.>>


    Kuhuk! Muren stumbled back, a gasp escaping his lips. The Wakizashi in his grasp felt suddenly lighter, then… weightless. He stared, eyes wide, as the blade levitated, rising from his trembling hands. It hung suspended in the air, bathed in moonlight and swirling smoke, a beacon of cold, silver light.


    Then, in a blinding flash – POOF! – it was gone. Vanished without a trace. Just… gone.


    The wind dropped as abruptly as it had begun. Silence slammed down, heavy and absolute, broken only by the frantic crackle of the fiercely burning incense. The shadows around the war memorials seemed to deepen, taking on a new, watchful intensity.


    Muren stood there, frozen, his hand still outstretched, fingers twitching in the empty air where the Wakizashi had been. *Gone… his grandfather’s Wakizashi… gone!* A pang, sharp and unexpected, hit him. But it was quickly overridden by another sensation.


    Power.


    It surged through him, not the gentle caress of Windless Paradise, but a jolt of raw, focused energy that shot down his arm and *exploded* in his fist. His hand clenched instinctively, feeling an alien strength, a coiled tension ready to unleash.


    This… this was different.


    This was lethal.


    The Locked Jab… it was real.


    Then, another wave of thought crashed into his mind, clear and cutting like the edge of a honed blade. A direct order, leaving no room for misinterpretation.


    <<Sakuragoka. Weakness is an insult to steel. Prove yourself. The one who preys on the weak… VANQUISH. Then, we shall speak again.>>


    ''Vanquish… a bully? That’s the service?'' It was simpler, more brutal, than he’d expected. But… fitting. Martial. Direct.


    Muren slowly lowered his hand, now a tight fist thrumming with newfound power. He stared at the spot where the Wakizashi had vanished, the crimson cloth suddenly feeling cold beneath his worn shoes. He had paid a price. A steep one. But the power… the *power* was undeniable.


    He snuffed out the incense, the Dragon’s Blood smoke coiling and fading, leaving behind an air thick with the scent of pact and consequence. Gathering his ritual items, his movements were precise, his gaze hardened. ''


    Sakuragoka… tomorrow…'' A slow smile, cold and sharp, curved his lips.