Kurokage

The shrine was silent. No wind, no breath, no time. Just obsidian walls and a blade humming with forbidden energy. Kurokage, age 13, stood before it—his shadow absent, his heartbeat syncing with the pulse of the sword buried in the stone. The elders had warned him: “Touch it, and you’ll never be seen again.” But he was already invisible to them. A ghost in his own village. He reached out. The moment his fingers grazed the hilt, the shrine cracked open like a thunderclap. Ink-black tendrils erupted from the blade, wrapping around his body, seeping into his skin, his soul. His face blurred, then vanished. Not even mirrors could reflect him anymore. The spirit of the eclipse—an ancient entity sealed within the sword—merged with him. It whispered in forgotten languages, showed him visions of battles that hadn’t happened yet, and gifted him the helmet: a cursed mask forged from moonlight and regret. He didn’t scream. He didn’t cry. He simply stepped forward, now wielding a blade that could slice through memory itself. Outside, the mountain trembled. The villagers fled. And Kurokage walked into the inkstorm, faceless, nameless, reborn. ---