The night was restless. The air over Yashiori Island carried the scent of an approaching storm, thick with the promise of rain and lightning. The Resistance camp had fallen into an uneasy silence, warriors sharpening their weapons, waiting. Word had spread—Shogunate forces were moving closer, hunting them down.
Denzan sat in the armory, his katana resting across his lap. His hands tightened around the hilt, but doubt gnawed at the edges of his mind. He had forged countless blades, trained alongside warriors, and fought his share of battles. Yet, deep down, he wondered—was he truly ready?
His brother approached, arms crossed. "You're thinking too much again."
Denzan exhaled sharply. "Just preparing myself."
His brother scoffed. "You're already prepared. You just don't realize it yet."
Before Denzan could respond, the alarm sounded—Shogunate forces were here.
—---
The battle erupted in a blur of steel and thunder. The Resistance fought fiercely, but the enemy was relentless. Denzan found himself at the front lines, his katana clashing against the blades of the Shogunate soldiers. Sparks flew with each strike, his muscles burning as he parried and countered.
A bolt of lightning split the sky, illuminating the chaos. Through the storm, Denzan spotted a group of Resistance fighters cornered by a heavily armored samurai wielding an Electro-infused naginata. The samurai moved with brutal efficiency, cutting down those who stood in his path.
Denzan didn't hesitate.
With a battle cry, he surged forward, intercepting the next strike aimed at a wounded Resistance fighter. Their blades clashed, the impact reverberating through his arms. The samurai's eyes narrowed.
"You fight well for a blacksmith," the samurai sneered.
Denzan gritted his teeth. "I'm more than that."
Their weapons clashed again, but the Shogunate warrior was faster, stronger. Denzan was forced onto the defensive, barely dodging the electrified strikes that threatened to overwhelm him. His grip tightened on his katana—he needed to end this, now.
A stray bolt of lightning struck the battlefield, the force of it sending Denzan crashing to the ground. His katana skidded away, lost in the mud. The samurai loomed over him, raising his naginata for the final blow.
Denzan clenched his fists. *Is this it? After everything—after forging my own path—I die here?*
No.
Not like this.
A surge of energy built within him, a force unlike anything he had ever felt. The storm around him roared, but within it, he felt something awaken.
Lightning danced across his vision. Power crackled in the air.
A brilliant violet light erupted beside him—his katana, once lost in the dirt, now thrummed with energy. And at its base, embedded in the sheath, a glowing Electro Vision pulsed like a heartbeat.
The samurai hesitated.
Denzan seized the moment. With newfound strength, he grasped his katana, the blade now crackling with electricity. He surged forward, faster than before, his movements guided by instinct. With one precise strike, he shattered the samurai's defenses, the force of his attack sending the enemy staggering back.
A single bolt of lightning followed his blade's path. Then silence.
The samurai fell.
Denzan stood there, breathing heavily, his body still thrumming with energy. He looked down at the Vision on his sheath, realization washing over him.
He had spent his whole life forging weapons for others. Now, the world had forged *him*.
The storm had come.
The battle had ended, but the storm within Denzan had only just begun.
The Resistance had won that night, pushing back the Shogunate forces, yet the price of victory was heavy. The wounded lay scattered across the camp, their pained groans mixing with the distant rumble of thunder. Denzan sat on the edge of a makeshift tent, his katana resting beside him. The blade was still crackling faintly, as if the storm had left something behind.
His brother approached, arms crossed as usual, but there was a rare softness in his gaze. "You finally got your answer," he said, nodding toward the Electro Vision embedded in Denzan's sheath.
Denzan looked down at it, the glow still foreign to him. "I didn't ask for this."
His brother smirked. "Doesn't matter. It chose you."
A long silence stretched between them. Denzan flexed his fingers, feeling the residual energy still humming in his veins. His katana had once been a tool of precision, but now, after witnessing the sheer power that coursed through him, he knew—his old weapons wouldn't be enough anymore.
He needed to forge anew.
—---
The forge stood at the heart of the Resistance's hidden base, a place of warmth amid the cold uncertainty of war. It wasn't as grand as the one he had lost in Inazuma City, but it was enough. Enough to shape steel. Enough to shape himself.
Denzan ran his fingers over the raw ore laid out before him—special metal scavenged from the wreckage of fallen warships, mixed with fragments of weapons taken from defeated Shogunate warriors. He could feel the remnants of battle in them, echoes of conflict waiting to be reborn.
He took a deep breath and set to work.
The forge roared to life, embers swirling in the air as he hammered the raw metal into shape. Sparks danced around him, and for the first time, they felt familiar—like the lightning that had coursed through his body on the battlefield.
Strike. Fold. Temper.
Hours passed, the rhythmic clang of metal against metal filling the air. Sweat dripped from his brow, but he never stopped. He could feel the energy in his fingertips, the Vision's power seeping into the steel, bonding with it in a way he had never thought possible. This was no ordinary forging—it was an awakening.
The katana took form first. It was slightly broader than his previous one, built to channel the surging force of his newfound strength. The blade shimmered with an unusual sheen, almost as if it had captured the very storm that had granted him his Vision. He traced his fingers along the edge, feeling the energy pulse beneath the surface.
Then came the pistol.
This time, he designed it differently—lighter, more refined, built for precision. The metal was reinforced to withstand the currents of Electro that would inevitably flow through it, ensuring it wouldn't shatter under the weight of its own power.
Finally, as dawn broke, he stepped back, exhaling deeply.
The katana gleamed in the early morning light, its edge humming with barely contained energy. The pistol rested in his grip, balanced perfectly. These were no longer just weapons.
They were an extension of him.
His brother stood at the forge's entrance, watching in silence. After a moment, he nodded in approval. "Looks like you're finally ready."
Denzan sheathed his new blade, the Vision at its base pulsing steadily. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the weight of his new weapons settle comfortably against him.
"Yeah," he said, his grip tightening. "I think I am."
The storm had come and gone.
Now, he would make the world hear its thunder.