The first team—Chairman Netero's—left the central plaza in silence.
No one spoke as they crossed the smooth ground, that mirror-like patch of land reflecting not the sky, but the people standing upon it. Their reflections were too clear. Too exact. As if the ground itself remembered them.
Behind them, embedded upright at the center of the clearing, remained the sword.
It did not gleam.
It did not radiate hostility
It simply was.
A sword of unfamiliar make, its sheath absent, its blade sunk into the flawless surface as though reality itself had accepted it as an axiom. The metal was dark—neither black nor silver—and faint, simple engravings ran along its length. Not decorative. Not ceremonial.
Counting marks.
No one had touched it.
Not because they were told not to—
but because every instinct screamed that this was not an object meant to be taken.
"Chairman," one of the Hunters finally said as they reached the edge of the plaza.
"We're really leaving it?"
Netero did not turn back.
"If a blade waits," he replied calmly, "it does so because it chooses its moment."
They departed.
And that was when the second team arrived.
V5 Recon Unit — Three Hours Later
They came from the east, clad in reinforced suits, Nen users screened behind layers of protocol and authority. The insignia of the V5 was clear upon their gear.
Unlike Netero's group, they advanced with confidence.
"This must be the artifact," the team leader said, voice steady, eyes locked on the sword.
"No emissions, no immediate hostility. Contained."
Nen specialists scanned the area.
"Residual aura readings are strange," one muttered. "Not active. But not gone."
Another frowned. "It feels like a grave."
The leader scoffed. "Everything here is a grave. That's the Dark Continent."
They stepped into the plaza.The moment they crossed onto the mirror-smooth ground, the air shifted.
Not violently.
Solemnly.
Like entering a cathedral built from silence and memory.
The sword stood unmoving.
One of the Hunters—a strong Enhancer, shoulders squared, aura flaring faintly—approached it.
"I'll draw it," he said. "If it reacts, I can handle it."
"No," the Nen analyst snapped. "We don't know—"
"I said I'll handle it."
He reached out.
The moment his fingers brushed the hilt—
The city breathed.
Not wind. Not sound.
Will.
The blade did not resist. It did not burn. It did not lash out.
It simply weighed him.
His knees buckled.
"What—" he gasped.
A presence descended—not crushing, not enraged—but impossibly heavy, like standing beneath a mountain that chose not to fall.
In that instant, he understood.
Not in words.
In instinct.
This blade demands death.
Not of the enemy.
Of the self.
His aura faltered.
He hesitated.
And that hesitation was enough.
The hilt went cold.
The sword rejected him.
The engravings along the blade did not change—but the plaza did.
A scream tore through the city.
Not from throats—but from stone.
The ruins around them shuddered as spectral forms tore themselves free from walls, pillars, and shattered streets. Figures of Nen, half-remembered, half-forgotten—citizens, warriors, scholars, children—all bound by a single emotion:
Rage at unworthy hands.
"They're forming!" someone yelled.
Too late.
The wills surged.
Not attacking randomly—but converging.
On the V5 team.
Nen constructs slammed into shields. Pressure crushed lungs. Invisible blades carved through aura defenses like wet paper.
"Retreat! RETREAT!"
Only a handful survived the first minute.
Outer Ruins — Netero's Group
They felt it before they saw it.
Netero stopped mid-step.
"So," he murmured. "Someone touched it."
A massive surge of Nen rippled across the city, violent and chaotic.
Moments later, another group emerged from the fogged streets ahead.
Zigg Zoldyck stood at the front, tall and calm, eyes sharp.
Beside him walked Linne Horsdoeuvre, staff in hand, her expression grave.
"You felt that too," Linne said.
Netero smiled thinly. "I was hoping I was imagining it."
The distant sounds of battle echoed—Nen detonations, screams, the city's response.
Zigg's gaze darkened. "That's not a natural reaction."
"No," Netero agreed. "That's history defending itself."
Without further discussion, the groups turned back.
The Plaza — Collapse
By the time they arrived, the plaza was a battlefield.
Only three members of the V5 team remained, backs pressed together, aura flickering.
The wills of the city circled them—not wild now, but deliberate.
Netero stepped forward and released his aura—not aggressively, but openly.
The spirits paused.
Zigg followed suit.
Linne raised her staff and spoke—not aloud, but through Nen—words of acknowledgement, of apology.
The wills hesitated.
Then, slowly they receded.
Silence returned.
The survivors collapsed.
As they were dragged from the plaza, one of them laughed weakly.
"So it's real," he rasped.
Netero knelt beside him. "What is?"
"The sword," the man whispered. "Its name is Murasame."
Linne stiffened.
"anything else?" Zigg asked.
The survivor's eyes unfocused.
"a technique - Ittou Shura," he said. "A blade to kill gods."
He died smiling.
Aftermath
That night, around a dying fire, the surviving expedition leaders spoke in hushed tones.
"A sword that requires the will to sacrifice one's existence," Linne said quietly. "And punishes those who hesitate."
Zigg crossed his arms. "And a city that riots if it's dishonored."
Netero stared into the darkness where the ruins slept.
"We can't leave it," he said.
"But we can't take it either," Linne replied.
Netero smiled.
"Then," he said softly, "we'll have to decide which is more dangerous."
The sword remained in the city.
Waiting.
Counting.
And somewhere in the Dark Continent, reality remembered the name:
Ittou Shura.