The desert stretched endlessly before them, golden and lifeless. Winds carried sand like knives, and the sun above blazed unforgivingly. Somewhere within this wasteland lay the Ruins of Azdara—once a city of master swordsmiths, now reduced to dust.
Kaito shielded his eyes. "The third crystal's here?"
Riven nodded, his hood drawn low. "Azdara was where your first blade was forged. The Veilborn burned it in the last year of the war."
Varnax refused to land too close—he sensed the curse that hung in the air.
They walked on foot now.
The sands began to hum.
"That's not wind," Kaito said.
"Sand wraiths," Riven muttered, unsheathing his blades. "They're drawn to blood."
Suddenly, the sand erupted.
Dozens of ghostly forms burst forth—skeletons wrapped in shadow and flame, wielding ancient weapons.
Kaito stepped forward, Nightcleaver glowing blue now with the power of two Blade Crystals.
"Let's see how far I've come."
He leapt into the fray.
His blade cut through the wraiths like water through cloth. Where Nightcleaver struck, echoes rang—a resonance that shattered the cursed.
LBehind him, Riven whirled like a storm of knives.
When the last wraith dissolved into ash, a stone platform slowly rose from the sand.
"Below," Riven said. "The old forge."
They descended.
Beneath the surface, they found it—an ancient hall, blackened by fire but intact. Swords lined the walls, some broken, others humming with energy. And at the center, on a stone pedestal, floated the third Blade Crystal—red like fire, swirling with combat essence.
Kaito approached—but the air grew heavy.
A figure stepped from the shadows.
Tall. Hooded. His face veiled in darkness. But Kaito knew him.
"Tyras," he whispered. "My blade-brother."
The figure said nothing—then drew a weapon identical to Nightcleaver.
Riven tensed. "That's a memory made real. A final test."
Kaito stepped forward. "Tyras. You fell defending me. I won't forget."
No reply.
Only a lunge.
Steel clashed in the ancient forge. The two blades—brothers—sang in harmony and defiance. Tyras fought like a mirror, each move perfect, precise.
But Kaito had grown.
He ducked a swipe, countered with a rising slash, and stepped into the rhythm of their old sparring days. Slowly, the illusion faltered.
With a final strike, he disarmed Tyras—and embraced him.
The image faded. Only the crystal remained.
He took it. And remembered.
Tyras dying in his arms. Whispering, "Live. And restore the flame."
Power surged again—burning, forging him anew.
Riven exhaled. "Three crystals. And you're not breaking."
"No," Kaito said, rising. "I'm reforging."
Outside, the sun was setting. But Kaito's fire had only begun to burn.