The village of Ashihara existed in the shadow of mountains that looked like they'd been painted by someone who'd never seen a straight line.
Sekitanki and Takeda arrived at dawn, when mist still clung to rice paddies and woodsmoke rose from thatched roofs in lazy spirals. The village was small—maybe thirty buildings clustered around a central road. A blacksmith's forge glowed at the far end, already active despite the early hour.
"We. Need information," Takeda said, his classical Japanese still simplified for Sekitanki's benefit. "About. Metal. From sky. But. Careful. You. Look. Foreign. Speak. Strange. People. Fear. What. They don't. Understand."
Sekitanki touched his shoulder where the arrow wound was healing—slowly, painfully, but healing. "Understand. Fear." They entered the village cautiously, Takeda leading. Farmers stopped their morning routines to stare. People pulling water from the well whispered behind their hands. Children pointed until their mothers shushed them sharply.
I'm the demon again. The thing that doesn't belong. The feeling was familiar. He'd been the thing that didn't belong his entire life—too smart for normal conversation, too empty for genuine connection. At least in the Carboniferous, the insects had been honest about wanting him dead.
The blacksmith's forge was a simple structure—open-sided, with a clay furnace that radiated heat like a small sun. An older person worked the bellows, his arms corded with muscle that age hadn't diminished. He was forging a sword blade, hammer falling in rhythmic strikes that rang like bells.
Takeda approached, bowing respectfully. Spoke in rapid classical Japanese that Sekitanki could only partially follow. The blacksmith's responses were curt. Dismissive.
Then Takeda gestured to Sekitanki, and the blacksmith's expression changed. Not to fear—to interest. Sharp interest, like a scholar seeing an unsolved problem.
The old gramps set down his hammer and approached. Studied Sekitanki with eyes that saw past surface to structure. Spoke directly to him in that impossible dialect: something about scars, about the pattern of injuries, about how they told a story.
Sekitanki caught maybe one word in three. But he understood the gesture when the blacksmith pointed at his own sword, then at Sekitanki's stolen blade, then shook his head sadly.
He's saying the sword is inferior. That I'm using a weapon unworthy of my skill.
The blacksmith—Kanemoto, Takeda supplied—gestured them inside a small workshop attached to the forge. Showed them a wall of broken blades. Dozens of them. Each one snapped or shattered or warped beyond use.
Kanemoto spoke at length, frustration evident in every syllable. Takeda translated haltingly: "He says. His blades. Break. Against. Rival clan. Swords. They have. Better smith. Better metal. His village. Cannot compete. Cannot. Defend themselves."
The old gramps's hands trembled as he picked up one of the broken swords. The blade had snapped cleanly, the metal grain visible in the fracture. Sekitanki's scientific mind engaged automatically.
Carbon distribution is uneven. The folding technique didn't properly distribute elements. The quench rate was too fast, creating internal stresses that—he stopped. Looked at Kanemoto. At Takeda. At the broken swords representing a village's inability to protect itself.
I could fix this.
The thought arrived with startling clarity. He understood metallurgy at a level this era wouldn't achieve for centuries. Knew how carbon bonding worked at the molecular level. Had spent three weeks working with materials that shouldn't exist, learning to exploit every structural advantage.
He could teach this gramps to forge blades this period had never seen.
Should I? The question felt heavier than any weapon. Introducing advanced technology to the past could butterfly into massive changes. Could reshape history. Could prevent his own existance if he wasn't careful.
But looking at Kanemoto's trembling hands, at the fear in the villagers' eyes, Sekitanki realized something: he was already changing history. His presence alone was a paradox. Trying to avoid impact was like trying to avoid leaving footprints while walking.
Sekitanki caught maybe one word in three. But he understood the gesture when the blacksmith pointed at his own sword, then at Sekitanki's stolen blade, then shook his head sadly.
He's saying the sword is inferior. That I'm using a weapon unworthy of my skill.
The blacksmith—Kanemoto, Takeda supplied—gestured them inside a small workshop attached to the forge. Showed them a wall of broken blades. Dozens of them. Each one snapped or shattered or warped beyond use.
Kanemoto spoke at length, frustration evident in every syllable. Takeda translated haltingly: "He says. His blades. Break. Against. Rival clan. Swords. They have. Better smith. Better metal. His village. Cannot compete. Cannot. Defend themselves."
The old man's hands trembled as he picked up one of the broken swords. The blade had snapped cleanly, the metal grain visible in the fracture. Sekitanki's scientific mind engaged automatically.
Carbon distribution is uneven. The folding technique didn't properly distribute elements. The quench rate was too fast, creating internal stresses that—
He stopped. Looked at Kanemoto. At Takeda. At the broken swords representing a village's inability to protect itself.
I could fix this.
The thought arrived with startling clarity. He understood metallurgy at a level this era wouldn't achieve for centuries. Knew how carbon bonding worked at the molecular level. Had spent three weeks working with materials that shouldn't exist, learning to exploit every structural advantage.
He could teach this man to forge blades this period had never seen.
Should I?
The question felt heavier than any weapon. Introducing advanced technology to the past could butterfly into massive changes. Could reshape history. Could prevent his own birth if he wasn't careful.
But looking at Kanemoto's trembling hands, at the fear in the villagers' eyes, Sekitanki realized something: he was already changing history. His presence alone was a paradox. Trying to avoid impact was like trying to avoid leaving footprints while walking.
Besides. I survived the Carboniferous. These people helped me. I owe them something. He pointed at the broken blade. At the forge. At himself. Trying to communicate across the language barrier: I can help. Let me help. Kanemoto's eyes widened. Hope and skepticism warred across his weathered face.
Takeda translated, and the old gramps responded rapidly. "He asks. How. Can you. Stranger. Who cannot. Speak properly. Know. His craft?" Sekitanki smiled—not the empty smile of his previous life, but something genuine. Something forged in survival.
"Because. I learned. From. Different master." He gestured broadly, encompassing everything. "Master. Who made. Everything. Try. To kill me. Every day." That was a lie, because he made up a sob story. The forging took three days.
Sekitanki couldn't speak the language well enough to explain theory, so he communicated through demonstration. Showed Kanemoto how to adjust the forge temperature by controlling airflow with mathematical precision. Drew diagrams in ash showing how to fold steel to distribute carbon evenly—not the traditional seven folds, but a pattern based on fractal geometry that wouldn't be formally discovered for seven hundred years.
The old smith watched with the intensity of someone seeing divine revelation.
On the second day, Sekitanki introduced concepts from the Carboniferous: how insect chitin derived strength from layered structures, how to mimic that in metal. How to create differential hardening—a technique this period knew, but not at the level of precision Sekitanki could calculate.
Kanemoto's hands shook as he worked, following instructions he didn't fully understand but trusted anyway. Because the foreign demon spoke the universal language of craft, and craft recognized mastery regardless of origin.
By the third day, villagers had gathered outside the forge. Word had spread of something impossible happening. Of the demon teaching secrets to their smith. Fear mixed with desperate hope. The blade took shape like poetry written in fire and steel. Sekitanki had designed it using principles from three different eras: traditional Japanese forging techniques, Carboniferous structural adaptation, and materials science from his future. The result was something that had never existed and shouldn't exist.
When Kanemoto finally plunged it into water for the final quench, the sound it made was like a bell ringing across centuries. The blade emerged perfect. The hamon—the temper line dividing hard edge from flexible spine—ran in patterns that resembled fractal coastlines. The steel itself seemed to shimmer, layers visible but integrated so completely they were inseparable.
Kanemoto held it up to the light, and tears ran down his weathered face. He spoke a single word Sekitanki understood: "Kisetsu." Miracle. The rival clan attacked that evening.
They came with confidence born from years of martial superiority. Fifteen warriors in full armor, led by a samurai whose blade had earned him the name Kuroki—"Black Demon" for the darkness his sword left in its wake. The village had no standing militia. Just farmers with farming tools and an old smith with broken swords.
But they had something else now. Takeda stepped forward to meet them, Kanemoto's new blade at his hip. The weapon caught evening light and scattered it like liquid fire. Kuroki laughed—a sound like breaking glass. Spoke mockingly in classical Japanese about old people and foolish ronin and how this would end the same way it always did.
Then Takeda drew the sword. The sound of it leaving the sheath was different from normal blades. Cleaner. Like reality itself was being cut. Kuroki's laugh died.
"That blade," he said slowly, and even Sekitanki caught the wonder in his voice. "Where did that come from?" "Does it matter?" Takeda responded. Then he moved.
What followed was art.
Takeda's technique was traditional—centuries of samurai sword craft distilled into perfect form. But the blade in his hands transcended tradition. It cut through Kuroki's guard like it wasn't there. Met his sword in a clash that should have been equal.
Kuroki's blade shattered. The sound echoed across the village. Rang like a death knell. The fragments fell in slow motion, catching light, scattering across dirt that had seen too many one-sided battles. The rival samurai stared at his broken weapon. At the impossible blade that had destroyed it. At Takeda, who stood ready for the next strike.
"Demon sword," Kuroki whispered. Then louder: "Demon sword! He wields a demon sword!" His warriors backed away. Fear replaced confidence. Because in an era where spiritual explanations governed reality, a blade that broke other blades wasn't advanced metallurgy.
It was sorcery. Kuroki drew a backup blade—shorter, cruder, but still sharp enough to kill. He came at Takeda with everything—decades of training, murderous intent, and the desperate fury of someone watching their world's certainties dissolve. The duel was magnificent.
Kuroki was skilled. One of the best ronin's of his generation. His strikes came from angles that exploited every gap in Takeda's defense.
But the blade in Takeda's hands was from three different eras simultaneously. And the ronin wielding it had spent days watching Sekitanki fight—watching prehistoric combat merge with human technique, watching survival forward tradition.
Takeda adapted. Incorporated. Evolved.
The killing stroke came in a motion that belonged to no school. The demon blade—Sekitanki's impossible creation—caught Kuroki's backup sword and sheared through it like paper. Continued through armor. Through flesh. Through everything that tried to stop it.
Kuroki fell in two pieces. The silence that followed was absolute. Then his warriors fled. Ran screaming about demons and cursed blades and how the natural order had been violated. Sekitanki watched from the forge entrance, covered in soot and ash, and felt something complex twist in his heart. I just changed history. Introduced technology seven hundred years early. Created a weapon that shouldn't exist.
And I'd do it again without hesitation. Because these people had given him shelter. Had fed him. Had accepted him despite the terror his presence inspired. Because saving lives mattered more than temporal purity.
Because he'd spent three weeks learning that survival meant doing the impossible and apologizing later. That night, the village celebrated. Simple celebration—rice wine and grilled fish, songs in classical Japanese that Sekitanki couldn't understand but felt anyway. Kanemoto sat beside him, still holding the blade like it might disappear.
"You," the old smith said slowly, using the simplest possible words. "Made. Something. Beyond. Time." You have no idea how right you are. "No," Sekitanki responded. "You. Made it. I. Just. Showed. How."
Kanemoto shook his head. "Showed. Everything. Things. That. Should not. Be known. Things. From. Gods." "Not gods. Just. Science. Just. Understanding. How. Things. Work."
The old gramps absorbed this. "Science. Is this. Your gods' name?"
Sekitanki almost laughed. Instead: "Something. Like that. Yes." Takeda approached, still carrying the demon blade. He bowed formally—the first time he'd shown such respect.
"This weapon," he said carefully, "will. Make you. Famous. And. Hunted. Everyone. Will want. This blade. Or. Want to. Destroy it." "I know," Sekitanki said. "Same. As always. Create. Something. New. And. Watch. People. Fight. Over it."
His mind drifted to his old life. The awards and recognition that had felt hollow. The genius that had isolated him. How different was forging an impossible blade from discovering impossible physics?
Both changed the world. Both made him a target. Both left him empty afterward. Or did they? Looking at the villagers' faces—fear transformed into hope, defeat transformed into possibility—Sekitanki felt something shift. Not filling the emptiness. Just... changing its shape. Making it less like a void and more like space waiting for something.
Purpose. Maybe. Probably. I don't know. But it's something.
"Tomorrow," he said to Takeda, "we. Go. Find. Metal. From sky. Yes?"
"Yes. But. More dangerous. Now. You proved. You have. Knowledge. That. Others. Want." "Good," Sekitanki smiled. "Dangerous. Is. What I. Do best." The ronin laughed and raised his sake cup in toast.
Somewhere in the darkness beyond the village, word was already spreading about the demon who forged impossible blades. About how the natural order had been violated. About how something would need to be done.
But for tonight, in firelight and celebration, Sekitanki allowed himself to feel something other than empty.
TO BE CONTINUED... [NEXT EPISODE: "Blood Under Moonlight"]