Kukou parried the blow, the clang of steel echoing off the plaza’s great fish statue. The Soul Chaser fighting them sneered, their voice like ash. “That blade was meant for a master. You are not them.” The words were sharper than any weapon, a reminder of the ambush that had stolen their mentor from Waterfall City. Kukou had inherited the sword, the haori, and a grief so vast it felt like a hollow space inside them. But in that hollowness, something else had taken root. An azure light, faint as a dying star, began to hum along the edge of their katana. It was the power of Tora, a legacy passed on in a final, dying breath. Kukou’s expression never shifted, but their eyes blazed with a borrowed magic. The mentor was gone, but their power now lived in a quieter, more focused vessel.