The battle was over.
Oni General Makura had retreated into the shadows, his severed arm left smoldering in the ruins of the shrine. The night air was still thick with the scent of ash, blood, and divine energy.
Arjun stood among the wreckage, his chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. His katana still hummed with power, the Chakra Dhanush resting on his back.
He had won.
But why did it feel like something worse was coming?
A sharp wind howled through the valley, rustling the blackened remains of the shrine.
Then—the moon changed.
Arjun’s breath hitched.
High above the world, the pale silver moon was turning a deep, unnatural red.
Blood-red.
Emi stepped beside him, eyes wide with recognition. “It’s happening.”
Arjun’s grip tightened on the hilt of his sword. “What is?”
Guru Vishwamitra had mentioned omens, but this felt different. This wasn’t just a sign. This was a warning.
A deep, low hum vibrated through the ground.
Emi turned to him, her voice urgent. “The Blood Moon. It signals the rising of an ancient force. A celestial shift that happens only once every thousand years.”
Arjun exhaled. “And let me guess—it’s not in our favor.”
Emi didn’t smile. “It means the barrier between worlds is thinning.”
Arjun’s heartbeat quickened. “The Asuras.”
A sudden gust of wind ripped through the valley. The torii gates that still stood groaned, their ancient wood cracking under unseen pressure.
The Blood Moon loomed larger, heavier, unnatural.
And then—the first portal tore open.
The sky itself split apart, an enormous fissure of black and red energy crackling above the ruined shrine.
From its depths, shadows began to pour out.
Oni. Asuras. Things that should not exist in this world.
Arjun exhaled, stepping forward. His bow ignited with divine light, his katana pulsing with celestial energy.
This wasn’t just a battle anymore.
This was a war.
The sky was ripped open, and the first Asuras stepped through.
Towering figures of dark flesh and molten veins, their eyes burned like smoldering embers. Their twisted armor shimmered under the crimson light of the Blood Moon, each step they took shaking the earth beneath them.
Arjun had no time to think. He moved.
His Chakra Dhanush flared, golden energy coursing through the bow as he pulled back the string. A Vajra Astra ignited—lightning crackling across the arrowhead.
He fired.
The first Asura never even saw it coming.
The divine arrow pierced through its massive chest, detonating in a burst of blue lightning. The creature screamed, its body convulsing before collapsing into a pile of smoldering ash.
But more emerged.
Dozens. Hundreds. Their howls filled the night air, shaking the very foundation of reality.
Arjun gritted his teeth. He could keep firing, but there were too many.
Then—a blur of motion above.
A dark figure descended from the rooftops, moving faster than the wind itself.
Takeshi.
His black gi fluttered as he landed, bow already drawn. Lightning crackled around him. His expression was unreadable, but his posture spoke volumes—deadly. Calculated. Ready.
Arjun’s breath steadied. He was not alone.
Takeshi exhaled, drawing his bow. His voice was calm. “You’re getting slower, Rao.”
Arjun smirked despite the chaos. “And you’re still dramatic.”
Takeshi fired.
His lightning arrow split mid-flight, turning into five streaks of pure energy. Each arrow found its mark, striking down five Asuras at once.
The creatures roared in agony, their bodies convulsing as they were reduced to smoldering husks.
Emi rushed to Arjun’s side, her voice urgent. “The portal won’t stop unless we sever its anchor!”
Arjun’s eyes snapped up toward the sky.
High above the shrine, beyond the swirling vortex of the Blood Moon, a dark figure hovered in the air—watching.
Not an Oni. Not an Asura.
Something worse.
Takeshi followed Arjun’s gaze. His expression darkened. “That’s not just an enemy.”
Arjun’s grip tightened on his bow. “Then what is it?”
Takeshi didn’t answer.
Instead, he drew his sword.
And for the first time, Arjun saw something rare—Takeshi was afraid.
The air crackled with unnatural energy as the figure descended from the sky.
The moment its feet touched the ground, the battlefield fell silent. The howls of the Asuras faded. The flames consuming the shrine dimmed.
Even the wind held its breath.
Takeshi’s grip on his sword tightened.
Arjun felt the weight of something old—something that did not belong in this world.
Then, the figure stepped forward.
A man, clad in dark, battle-worn samurai armor. His long, silver hair flowed behind him, and his face was eerily calm—too calm. His eyes, cold as winter steel, locked onto Arjun.
And Arjun knew.
This was no ordinary enemy.
This was Miyamoto Musashi.
Or rather—what remained of him.
Takeshi whispered, his voice edged with disbelief. “The Undead Samurai…”
Arjun exhaled sharply. Musashi. The greatest swordsman in Japan’s history. A warrior who had never lost a duel.
But he had died centuries ago.
So why was he standing here?
The undead samurai tilted his head slightly. “Dhanurvaan.”
His voice was deep, smooth—not monstrous, not hollow. It was a voice that had commanded battlefields.
Arjun steadied himself. “You know me.”
Musashi took another step, his hand resting on the hilt of his katana. “The Archer of Two Worlds. I have waited for you.”**
Takeshi’s breath hitched. “Arjun—”
Musashi moved.
Faster than anything Arjun had ever seen.
One second he was ten paces away.
The next—he was already in front of him.
Arjun barely had time to react. His bow came up just as Musashi’s blade slashed.
Steel met divine energy.
A shockwave erupted, sending debris flying. The sheer force of the clash ripped through the ground, leaving cracks in the earth beneath them.
Arjun skidded backward, his arms trembling from the impact.
Musashi had barely moved.
His blade gleamed under the Blood Moon, perfectly steady, his stance effortless.
This wasn’t just a test.
This was a challenge.
Musashi lowered his sword slightly, his expression unreadable. “Let us see if you are worthy of your Astra.”
Then he attacked again.
And this time—Arjun wasn’t sure if he could survive it.
Musashi’s blade flashed—faster than thought.
Arjun barely twisted away as the katana sliced through the air, missing his throat by inches. The wind pressure alone split the ground where he had been standing.
He leapt back, pulling his bowstring, golden energy crackling as a Vajra Astra arrow materialized.
He fired.
The lightning arrow streaked toward Musashi, fast enough to shatter the sound barrier.
Musashi tilted his head.
That was all.
The arrow should have struck him. But it passed through empty air.
Musashi had already moved.
Arjun barely saw the attack coming.
The samurai reappeared directly in front of him, his sword already mid-swing.
No time to dodge.
Arjun crossed his arms, manifesting a divine energy shield at the last second.
The katana struck.
The sheer force of the impact sent Arjun flying. He crashed against the side of a ruined pagoda, splinters of wood exploding into the night.
Pain jolted through his ribs. Too strong. Too fast.
How the hell was he supposed to beat someone like this?
A shadow flickered above him.
Musashi was already airborne, sword raised.
Arjun reacted on instinct. He kicked off the wall, flipping onto the shrine rooftop just as Musashi’s blade cleaved through the wood where he had landed.
The fight moved upward.
The two warriors clashed across the rooftops, their silhouettes illuminated by the Blood Moon.
Musashi struck with impossible speed and precision, his footwork so perfect that Arjun barely had time to counter.
Every attack was a kill strike.
Every dodge was one breath away from death.
Arjun had fought samurai before. He had fought demons. But this was something else.
Musashi wasn’t just skilled.
He was flawless.
And if Arjun didn’t find a way to break that perfection—he was already dead.
The rooftops of the shrine shattered beneath their battle.
Arjun barely had time to breathe—Musashi was relentless.
The undead samurai moved like a phantom, his sword strokes effortless, precise, merciless. Every attack forced Arjun back, every parry sent a numbing shock through his arms.
He was losing.
His divine Astra, his elemental arrows—none of it mattered. Musashi slipped through them like water, his blade never breaking rhythm.
This is impossible.
Arjun dodged another strike—but he was too slow.
Pain.
Musashi’s blade sliced across his shoulder, cutting deep. Arjun gritted his teeth, staggering back, his blood dripping onto the ruined rooftop.
Musashi stepped forward, unfazed. “You rely too much on power.”
Arjun’s breathing was ragged. He had fought demons. He had fought Oni generals. But this was different.
This was pure mastery.
Musashi raised his katana again. “You have not yet learned.”
Then he vanished.
Arjun barely saw the movement—Musashi reappeared behind him.
Too fast. Too precise.
Arjun turned, but—the sword was already at his throat.
For the first time since this battle began—he felt it.
Defeat.
Silence filled the night. The Blood Moon loomed above them.
Musashi’s voice was calm. “You are not ready to wield an Astra.”
Arjun clenched his fists. No. No, this can’t be it.
He had trained. He had fought. He had come too far.
But Musashi was right.
Power wasn’t enough. Speed wasn’t enough. He was still fighting like a student.
His own mind was his enemy.
Musashi exhaled. “We will finish this soon.”
Then—he was gone.
The undead samurai vanished into the night, as if he had never been there.
Arjun stood frozen, his body trembling.
His wounds burned. His pride shattered.
And in the silence of the ruined shrine, under the crimson light of the Blood Moon—
Dhanurvaan had lost his first battle.