“The blade.”

Ascending out of the worn leather travelpack was the blade in question. Its pristine golden length, ivory hilt and purple-green gemstones glinted with gorgeous detail in the crimson firelight. She cast it down onto the red granite floor at the center of the ceremony chamber with a distinct lack of care. It meant nothing to her. It clattered and skid horribly to a stop before his feet.

The figure in question was dressed in esoteric robes of pale purple, red and gold with flared golden shoulder ornaments that curled out and up like angry tusks. A wicked mask hid his features well. A fanged maw, half-agape in a grimacing smile sat below a snarling porcelain nose and sockets with burning red coals for pupils. A mane of wild white hair flared out from the edges of the mask and along the sides to completely shroud any semblance of a human beneath it all. In his shadow was a massive metal wheel, finely etched with flowing filigree. It was a contraption of sorts with clockwork mechanisms that rotated idly within the circular frame. The hollow center was occupied by a glowing red orb that pulsed much like a heart, suspended there entirely without assistance.

His long and almost malnourished fingers extended out from his billowing sleeves to beckon the weapon across the empty space. It adhered to his will and was carried to him by invisible tethers. The moment it entered his grasp he ran his talon-esque nails across the metal with a low, scratching hiss. It was a fine weapon. But a fine weapon no longer. The golden wheel at his back broke into a series of clicks and the red orb dilated, giving off a rising hum that disturbed the wisping incense in the chamber. A sourceless cold wind blossomed up from below just as the Boon Blade’s crystals climatically burst alight and died all at once. The weapon broke into its many pieces. The ivory hilt came undone, the golden blade cracked at its center and the gems came loose to shatter across the floor into gleaming shards.

“Rise.” He said.

And Lois rose from both knees to her feet. He beckoned her along and she came as commanded and presented herself before the towering figurehead. She was one of few privy to the illusion she now stood before. The Figurehead, as she and Myoshu called him, was a puppet. And a fitting one. In reality he was a second to the true Master. She had heard stories of what he was before. A time traveler from lands long lost to calamity who now focused his reality altering powers to effect the lunar cycle. This was the man responsible for the Blood Moon that saved her life. She respected him, paid homage and understood the weight of his role. But she knew well who truly held all the cards.

The world around them ticked to a gradual stop. The other five figures in the room froze and color fleeted like shadows to light. It was just her and the Figurehead now. His olden voice, many thousands of years wise, was but the faintest whisper now. In truth there was never a sense of foreboding fear with this one. Only the real Master could knot her heart like that. Even still his powers were immense, as he was soon to demonstrate.

“Long have you waited for this…” He exhaled.

She had. Her eyes found themselves wandering to the uniquely crafted weapons of murder held by her Brothers and Sisters. All of them were perfectly tailored to them and their mirror. It was a rite of passage. Forged in the blood of Demons, the weapon was an extension of one’s self. All of them were capable of legatic feats, powerful in the extreme and with their very own personalities. Oh, yes. Within their weapons lived the dark soul that symbiotically leached off their mortal one. Her ceremonial dagger was never a conduit for channeling Nehel’s malevolence. Just a gift given to a Priestesses. But now it was her turn. Silent dread hid just beyond the veil, though. She knew what would come with this rite of passage.

His hands weaved the realms together in a localized pocket before himself, drawing on his innermost strength of material manipulation to tug at the threads of creation. He funneled the concentrated enchantment and blessing of Nagakabouros into a new and twisted form. Her eyes pulsed with the intense force as psychic shockwaves billowed out from the disturbance. Slowly it began to materialize before her. It was exactly as she imagined it would be. It began with the ringed pommel, large enough to fit her fist through. From it hung semi-translucent red beads. Then the long hilt, almost twice the size of one arm and wrapped in white, braided silk, cotton and leather. And finally the crystalline ruby blade, its edge was just barely curled and with a notch towards the middle. The blade continued down over the hilt to connect with the pommel, guarding the handle and the hands that would grip it. The flat of the weapon was formed of perfect golden alloy as a base to support the ruby exterior. In the Figurehead’s grasp it was a longsword, but in her own it was a greatsword, so large it needed to rest on one shoulder for support.

It appirated and fell into her embrace. It was weighty but not heavy enough to offset her balance. Its hairline edge could cut through a mountain, she wagered. She admired its spectacular craftsmanship up until a black orb was injected into the crystal of the sword much like blood squeezed into water. The faintest shimmer of a toothy smile made itself known. Before she knew it time resumed and the others gathered around her.

“The mission to slay the Great Shadow will also be your proving grounds.” The Figurehead explained. “Stop thirty beating hearts and consume their essence into Nehel’s Embrace.”

Lois knew this was her fate, but hearing it spoken aloud sent cold butterflies frenzying in her stomach. “And what if I am unable to return?” Her voice was shaken, her eyes flicking to her comrades.

“Failure is no longer an option. Conquer your Demon or be consumed yourself. This is your last chance.”

Lois looked down at her Hunting Robes. Blood red as the day she was absorbed into this mess. She only wore them when there was killing to be done. The beaded belt across her waist, the long skirt, the tight sleeves and the hooded half-cloak. All that was left was the mask. Myoshu knelt down beside her, presenting the travelpack. Beyond the lip she could see it. It’s porcelain forehead. Her fingertips pressed against its cold breadth, slipping it past the leather to look upon it. The empty sockets stared back at her. Its surface was so polished she could see the mystic glow of her now blue eyes and the red haze that trailed from their corners. The inverted crescent and the streak of paint beneath it made her smile. She flipped the mask around with a deep breath. Its interior was made to her exacting proportions. Another long exhale and she pressed the mask into her face. The veins along her jaw and forehead bulged, securing the vizard through blood.

She hoisted Nehel’s Embrace in her left hand, resting it on her shoulder, and gripped her ceremonial dagger in her off-hand. Then her eyes turned to Ikari. He looked down at her and his shoulders rolled with violent anticipation. Ikari was a walking fortress, nearly eight feet tall and with musculature that rivalled their most intimidating Bloodkin. One arm, his right arm, was fully crimson and hardened like dry wax into spines along the underarm and shoulder. His robe ran across one third of his chest, showing the other muscled two-thirds. A pointed, fox-like mask with red striations sat over his face and two crystalline horns curled out and up in ever brighter shades of red towards the tips. A big ponytail of black hair that trended towards crimson at its end hung about midway down his chiseled back. He hefted his blade. It too was a grandiose thing, many times bigger than Lois’ and befitting his mass. The length of it alone was as tall as Ikari.

Everyone gave space the moment the brute uprooted his monumental blade and rose it high in the air. With the grace of a Master swordsman he swung a cut into the far darkness. At first nothing, then the portal. A tear in reality looked over a lonely Temple sat on a craggy mountain top. The edges of the seam sizzled with boiling blood that dripped onto the floor and dissipated seconds later.

“And so the show begins…” Myoshu laughed.

Temple Thanjuul. Far and tucked away from civilization. Once a seat of power in Ionia, no longer. Its edifice was a crumbling thing, warped by time. It was a relic of a bygone age, neglected by its current residence. How it still stood in the empty valley was a mystery to even the Shadow himself. Its stories only numbered in the single digits and its expanse was constricted to the peak’s surface area, dwarfing its potential. But still, many thought of it as a ruin. The Kinkou Order had abandoned it in favor of their new Temple Koeshin to the northwest of Navori. Or so historians claim.

A lone Acolyte patrolled along one balcony that ran around the top most extreme of Temple Thanjuul. Tonight was much like any night on guard duty. He’d make his rounds, silently. Gesture to the other patrol ward, silently. And take a five minute break in between hours until he was relieved at dawn. He had yet to receive any ink and so forwent the ability to manipulate shadow. He had been recruited to the Order at a young age by his overzealous Brother. His hopeful little Brother, always getting the both of them into trouble. But he soon found himself rising quickly through the ranks of the Order. Only another week and he would receive the Yanlei.

He was meandering along the stone edge of the balcony, practicing his striking when suddenly the crescent moon slid to its full scope. The flood of light surprised him. He looked up in immense confusion. The first place his mind went to was the Lunari of Targon. They had the potential to manipulate the lunar cycle. Maybe there was some ritual going that he wasn’t aware of? Then the moon’s soft blue light warped into a deep red color. A sense of foreboding sunk his heart into his stomach. He didn’t know what it meant, but it couldn’t be good.

The roar of beasts sent his eyes skyward. He expected to see wrathful drakes but instead it was six figures plummeting down from on high. He barely had a second to prime his wrist blades before the first of them made impact. Temple Thanjuul shook to its very core. Alarmed shouts alerted sleeping Acolytes of commotion.

He sprinted to the nearest entry point that allowed him access to the eighth floor loft, sliding open the horse-shoe shaped door. A pile of rubble and shingles shrouded in filtering dust obscured his vision. “Intruders!” He screamed, “Intruders on the eighth flo--”

A streak of purple-red energy reached out of the settling dust like paint at the behest of a gunshot, sinking an inky round straight into his throat to silence him. The red moonlight that filtered in through the rooftop breach shone on six figures, one massive, four humanoids, and one diminutive little thing. He fell onto his back, looking at them. His eyes caught the smoking end of an extended barrel. A golden gun held aloft by a man in purple robes with red rope stretched across his torso looked down at him. A mouthless horned mask with burning red eyes was seated in a thin cloth hood. His murderer laughed at the young man. His fingers hopelessly clutched at his throat while he writhed in agony.

“Music to my ears.” He said… It said… What was that voice? It wasn’t human. It was… Terrifying…

Ketsuekime was the de facto lead of this operation. He had the most personal stake in it. For more than one reason. He unsheathed his blade from over one shoulder, scanning the room behind his devilish horned mask. His blue glowing eyes peered through the cloud of dust with undisturbed vision. Lois and Nehel knew him to be a legendary swordsman. He wore armor instead of fine silk. His cuirass was fashioned in the vein of a voracious maw and his metal greaves were bladed across their bottoms. He was strong. His exposed arms said as much. And he was an emotionless killer. One of Master’s most reliable Hunters. She had fallen under his command numerous times before. He hardly spoke. And when he did it was almost always to ask for silence or focus.

His keen ears intercepted the sound of many more Acolytes sprinting up the steps to greet them. He would welcome them with open arms. They came in their ones, twos and threes through the threshold into an empty loft. Ketsuekime waited until all the stragglers gathered before the four balcony doors slid open to reveal his Hunters. The slaughter began with Ikari, overzealous and eager to sink his blade into flesh. The hulking brute slew trios of Acolytes with every swing. The sound of his sword cleaving through sinew and bone was sickeningly sweet. Ketsuekime watched from the hole above as the mediocre quick response force was decimated in righteous fashion. Myoshu picked off the fleeing souls who recognized too late what they were dealing with. He strode and twirled his pistol carbine around the trigger guard, snapping his weapon still to land precise shots on one, two, three and four victims. Then he was reloading. The action was just as smooth as all the others had been.

Ketsuekime descended and they progressed down the steps. He motioned his cocky Priestess forward and she giggled with delight at finally having the spotlight for herself. Akaiken. A woman possessed not only of Bloodkin but of a combative spirit, too. Never one to follow orders unless it was something she was planning to do beforehand. She, of all the Priestesses, was a loner.

“I work best alone,” She’d always chirp. Myoshu hated her the most. But in the way siblings hated each other. Nothing more.

Her fine crimson robes were revealing. Her small skirt showed off her bubbly thighs and her tight purple undersuit accentuated her feminine form. Purple knee high leggings rose up and were etched with gold, as were the edges of her garments. A fine mask crafted in the image of a stag veiled her face. Streaks of red paint wrapped around the flared flanks of the porcelain and golden, serrated stag horns stood up from the flattened top of the vizard. Spiked, raven black hair tied into a high ponytail shot out from the back of her head. She was armed with an artificed kama and kunai, both made of glowing blue crystal. Lois always admired the craftwork of her weapons.

She cantered down the flight to the next landing, sinking her kama into the cloth of the sliding doorway. A downwards cut opened a seam and she produced a small popper from the cylindrical case that sat fastened just above her rear. She slipped it through and red, grainy smoke billowed out from the point of impact, shrouding the entrypoint. The hacking of surprised Acolytes could be heard on the other side. Akaiken smiled.

The doors slid open a second later and Akaiken found them in the smoke by the sounds of their coughing. One by one they fell, her kama finding the heart each and every time. When the smoke finally cleared the dorms were a bloody mess of dead bodies. “This could’ve been a solo hunt, why did Master even bother bringing you all along?”

“Silence, you insufferable brat. This stage is too grand for the likes of just you.” Myoshu was already starting down the next flight.

“I love it when your blood boils, Myoshu!” Akaiken laughed.

“Both your skulls would look perfect chatting on my mantle.” Yuzaru declared, breaking his silence. It was his demented way of telling them to shut up.

Yuzaru. If there was one soul amidst her surrogate family Lois feared, it was Yuzaru. He wrestled with his Bloodkin for control much like she did. His laid back personality was offset by disturbing quips of beheading his allies. And when he got to lusting for blood, there was no stopping him. Somewhere along the line of executions he’d developed an obsession for skulls. The lines between him and his inner Demon were too blurred to distinguish the Swordsman from the necrophiliac. In his past life he was a vagabond. Or at least that’s what Lois heard. She liked him better this way, though.

He, much like Ketsuekime, was a warrior. Preferring plate adorned in fabrics as opposed to the other way around. A red sash ran along his golden etched cuirass, tied at the waist by a big crimson rope. On his shoulder was a tier pauldron fashioned of wood and metal and along his extremities were more plates fastened by string and leather. His mask was something like a ghostly skull, ironically enough. Gaunt porcelain features seamlessly transitioned into crescent horns that curled out and up, framing the paint brush style plume of red hair that ran down his back. His eyes glowed a blue-red just like Lois and Ikari.

The next floor came and he was the first to reach it. One hand rested on the hilt of his katana and the other held the sheath in place, slowly pulling it free as he approached the open door. He ran the blade along his wrist and tendrils of ichor took to the air around him. The chamber was meant to be a training ground for initiates. And here they all were, being guarded by more Acolytes backed by a Yanléi Shadowseer. The older woman pulled at the dark edges of the room, forming a wall of impenetrable shadow. Or so she thought. Yuzaru sunk into a strong bow stance, loading his blade to one side of himself. The fresh blood began to manifest on the edge of his grandiose katana.

The acolytes were sprinting towards him, now, summoning their shadows to bolster their numbers. He waited with refined patience, counting the breaths. One, two, three. On the third breath he unleashed a maelstrom of blood into the Dojo, sending it whipping like a hurricane to twist the room apart, including all its occupants. He watched as his team made their way past and down to the next floor, chuckling to himself. The carnage was so amusing.

They all rallied on the fifth floor. A crumbling hall full of antique weaponry and old display cases. Still just the way Ketsuekime remembered it. He sighed to himself as he saw the room was empty. Or at least that’s what it's hidden occupants wanted them to think. They all had Blood Sense. They could hear the collective thumping like beating drums. But their job was to eradicate the Great Shadow and his order. So these fools couldn’t be spared either. They feigned like they were all none the wiser, stepping into the room as a group in search of enemies they already knew were present. Ikari was done keeping up the facade mere seconds after their arrival. He spun his blade and cut straight through the nearest load bearing pillar, subsequently bisecting the Acolyte hidden behind it. The pillar crackled with instability before toppling over to crash into several dusty display cases. The commotion finally started the next engagement.

Myoshu played support, assembling his rifle to put high powered shots down range. He wove each inky bullet between his comrades to find his mark again and again, catching several Acolytes as they dropped down from the rafters, making them corpses before they ever hit the ground. Each shot was a liquid explosion from the barrel of his brush that pulped the victims he’d zeroed in on, knocking massive holes in their torsos and bursting apart skulls in the blink of an eye. Then he was reloading again.

Ikari slayed as he was one to do, his rage building with each acolyte he split in half. His crimson arm burst with vascularity the moment he let out a blood curdling roar. The adrenaline carried him spinning through the room like a loose top, moving him with unnatural speed. The Acolytes continued to send in reinforcements, simply more fuel for the pire that was his unending wrath.

Akaiken and Nehel worked in concert. The braggadocious Priestess used her chained Kama to impale Acolytes and pull them into Nehel’s bouncing fury. Her heavy two-hander cut low at the legs, just beneath the knees, leaving them immobile and easy pickings for Akaiken to sink her kunai into. Every swing of Nehel’s sword left a reverberating twang hanging in the air whole seconds after it had cleaved against its foe. She split intestines open, using the blood of the fallen to build her undulating orb of ichor. The shadowy projections helped little in their fight against the very best Bloodkin Hunters Master had to offer.

Before the fight could see its conclusion, Temple Thanjuul shook again. The floor beneath them buckled from the loss of support and the ground began to give way, breaking apart nearest to the toppled pillar before spreading outwards like crackling ice. The majority of the Hunters descended with their prey, save Myoshu. He’d much rather take the stairs in all honesty.

The fifth floor broke down into the fourth, third, second and the first, leaving the main hall littered in debris and dust. They were all deposited in the remains of all four floors, but the fighting hadn’t stopped. Yuzaru and Ketsuekime still fended off more Shadow Acolytes. Ketsuekime was tired of this back and forth. He wanted the Great Shadow. He wanted to end this. He parried, parried and counter-attacked, two swift cuts, from left to right, high and low. Two bodies fell in the wake of his blade.

“Zed! Show yourself!” He was not angry, simply projecting his voice so his quarry could hear him.

He stumbled through the broken architecture, attempting to find some semblance of even ground so he could reorient himself. Another Acolyte came charging and he cut him down as well, sweeping the legs and digging his sword down into the man’s neck. Ketsuekime was soon joined by Nehel who carved a path through the remnants to join him.

“He’s there.” She said, gesturing towards the fallen double doors that led out onto the stone courtyard outside Thanjuul Temple.

Zed, surrounded by his elites, sat waiting for their arrival. Ketsuekime mustered his Hunters and started down the flight of steps to the cool stone courtyard. The air up here was thin and cold. Just cold enough that gentle snowfall descended on occasion. It seemed now was just such an occasion. The snow flurries danced their way down in the twilight, almost as if the weather knew of the icy disdain these two harbored for one another.

“I had wondered who was destroying my Temple.” Zed hissed, his throaty voice echoing against his metal mask.

“Your temple?” Ketsuekime growled, breaking his usually monotonous tone.

“What is this, Shen? What is it you’ve become in my absence?” Zed inquired, holding his hands out to either flank.

“The very thing you sought to keep me from when you lied about having killed Master Kusho.”

“So, what?! You throw in your sword with the Golden Demon, you join this cult of the Blood Moon?! I thought they were mere legends, but I see now that I was wrong. You have become everything you sought to prevent!” Zed was furious. Everything he had worked to accomplish, undone.

“You know nothing of reality, Zed. The Blood Moon is the future of Ionia. The balance was offset long ago. Jhin was released by corrupted fools in the government vying for power! Keeping the balance is a fool's errand. One I will no longer tolerate.” Ketsuekime spat.

“So you come to kill me? I am the last bastion between you and domination over Ionia?”

“Think of it as the beginning of a new chapter in our play, Shadow! What’s a drama without a little death, hmmn? It moves the plot forward.” Myoshu added.

Ketsuekime was no longer Shen. None of them were themselves any longer, in fact. Some held onto some semblance of their previous lives but their change was inevitable. Bloodkin like Ikari and Akaiken accepted this fact. Others like Nehel and Yuzaru fought against it. A futile effort. The equivalent of hiding beneath the sheets as the monstrosity loomed at the foot of the bed. It was still there, it would consume whether its prey could see it or not. Choosing to look away wouldn’t change that.

“The Blood Moon claims all.” Ketsuekime declared.

Ketsuekime’s blades, much like the other Bloodkin who came to the Figurehead with their own powerful creations, had been perverted by their mirror. He possessed two. One was an ordinary shortsword with a slight curvature. But the other… The other was his Spirit Blade. It too, appeared unspectacular. A wide bladed longsword of Ionian design. Zed knew well the power it possessed. But Ketsuekime was no longer Shen. Could he really count on that dated knowledge?

Zed and his most decorated Acolytes splayed out across the courtyard at the Great Shadow’s behest. Zed counted on his old ally’s bruised pride urging him into a duel. It was the only hope he had of escaping with his life. This Shen, mutated by violent spirits, couldn’t possibly be as collected as his previous self. The esoteric scrawlings of a cult who summoned Demons into the material realm spoke of their unmatched killing prowess. It was all evidently true seeing as how they decimated one fourth of his Order in mere minutes. Suddenly his decision to send Kayn south was coming full circle to bite him in the ass. He had seen this full red moon not but some weeks ago, prompting his research. But everything he found was vague and polysemous.

Ketsuekime and his five Bloodkin plotted forward just as Zed and his ten devout multiplied into twenty, each with a shadowy clone of themselves. This didn’t slow their advance at all. There was no intimidating Hunters, it seemed. Their timid advance doubled in pace suddenly as all six Bloodkin were sprinting with reckless abandon. Zed gestured forward, sending his Acolytes out to meet them. A strategic move to create a wall of bodies and zone away Ketsuekime’s allies. The resounding and collective clash of blades made Zed’s ears ring. Several of his elites died seconds after the initial counter-charge. Even his best wasn’t better than these creatures.

Here he came. Zed summoned a shadow clone in Ketsuekime’s path and he struck through it with his shortsword, sending it separating like parted fog. Good, he took the bait. Perhaps his bloodlust was getting the better of him. It had certainly got the best of most of his allies. Just a little closer. He cast his shuriken out towards Ketsuekime for him to parry, as he knew he would. They clinked off the broadside of his sword, harmlessly. He was too fast for something so simple. Then with a thought and flick of his fingers his shadow clone manifested once more, this time behind his charging foe. Nothing in Shen’s arsenal could counter this. He was almost certain of it. Almost. There was no time for second guessing, though. He had to execute or his chance to end this swiftly would be lost!

Zed warped away just as Shen closed to strike. He never intended to go back and forth with his old ally. He wanted him dead fast so he could flee in the chaos. At the very least if he didn’t land his killing blow he could put some distance between him and this mess while Shen was recovering. Zed took the place of his shadow, swapped like playing cards. Now Shen was flanked on both ends, pincered and vulnerable to attack. Zed’s eyes widened as he saw his opportunity so clearly before him. His gauntlet blades primed and his Yanlei dust was produced from one pocket, ready to splash Shen the moment he turned.

But he didn’t turn. He continued his charge into Zed’s figment, crushing it utterly without ever sparing Zed so much as a glance. His blade would fall just short of his mark at this range. He had to close the distance. In his frenzied thought and purposeful sprinting a single gunshot shattered his world. He blinked, and in the time it took his lids to flutter open blood was fountaining up and out of his mouth through the grills of his metal mask. He felt weak, like a newborn foal his legs couldn’t support him. He dropped to both knees. His mouth opened to take in oxygen, but his lungs refused it. Refused to hold in the air. He finally looked down to assess the damage only to be taken aback with horror. A gaping wound dripping with red-purple paint and blood bore through his stomach and chest, a few inches beneath the heart. Ahead of him his intestines were scattered like dirty laundry. The baleful red of the full moon filtered through the opening in his person. Oddly beautiful.

This was never meant to be a revenge killing. This was a coordinated effort. They wanted him dead that badly? He smiled. “I only did what was best for you… Shen…”

Shen finally turned, looking upon Zed in his fallen form. His piercing blue eyes glowed half red behind the mask, now. He gestured for someone just out of Zed’s periphery and soon found the sharp edge of a blade against one side of his neck. A formal execution? How thoughtful. The blade cut against the air as his executioner readied. If this is how it must end… Then so be it. The backstroke began as his eyes rose to meet Shen’s. A shock of brief pain made him wince and then… Nothing. Shadow. Darkness.

Before he could question if he was truly dead or not, baleful red light shone overhead. The moon? Vast hills of red grass stretched on and on as the black receded into crimson cloud cover and windswept plains. Tall trees with cardinal leaves swayed in a harsh breeze, so harsh he could barely open his eyes. Fallen leaves skittered across the ground like strips of parchment and a foreboding sense of dread left him feeling like prey to hidden predators… Apparently that wasn’t far from the truth...