The ink didn't move.
He watched it for another long breath, waiting, half-expecting the line to disappear like a trick of the eye, or smear like wet paint. But it didn't. The words stayed where they were, dry and certain.
Swords never forget.
His fingers brushed the edge of the parchment, careful not to disturb it. Still trembling slightly. Not from fear, but the lingering rush of what he'd seen, no, felt. Every clash between those two monsters had rung through his bones like a bell.
That definetly wasn't a dream.
He could still feel the way the earth split beneath their feet. The way Muramasa's sword moved, not with grace alone, but with burden, anchored in precision, scarred with intention. It wasn't beauty for beauty's sake. Every strike meant something. Every feint had a cost. That man wasn't just skilled; he was devastating. Brutal in a way that wasn't cruelty, but principle.
And that technique…
