The Weapon Genius: Anything I Hold Can Kill-Chapter 96: Weight of the Blade

Muramasa’s eyes stayed on the broken blade.

He didn’t speak right away.

Didn’t move.

Just stared at the jagged edge half-buried in the dirt, like it offended him.

Jin pushed himself up to a knee, catching his breath. The bruises were fresh, but nothing was broken—at least not physically.

Still, he stayed quiet. Instinct said Muramasa wasn’t done.

"You carry that sword like it’s an afterthought," Muramasa said at last. His voice was quiet. Distant. "A blade in that condition... and you dare let it touch the ground?"

Jin blinked, then reached for the katana and pulled it free of the dirt. He held it with both hands now, careful.

"I didn’t really plan on landing face-first in your sacred ground," he muttered.

Muramasa’s eyes narrowed.

"A weakling like you shouldn’t have drawn a sword like that in the first place."

Jin didn’t rise to the insult. Just stood, steady but cautious.

"Believe me," he said, "if I had a better one, I’d be using it."

"That’s not what I meant."

Muramasa stepped forward, his presence enough to drag the air with him.

"You think the weapon is the problem," he said. "That the break in the steel affects your strenght."

He stopped just a few steps away, gaze fixed on Jin’s hands.

"But I’ve seen warriors split mountains with blades half that length. The blade’s only ever as strong as the one holding it."

He looked Jin over, slow and unimpressed.

"You don’t look like someone worth the weight of iron."

Jin said nothing.

Not because he agreed—but because arguing with someone like Muramasa felt like trying to convince a mountain to move. Pointless and exhausting.

Muramasa’s eyes drifted skyward for a breath. Not in thought—memory.

"Back then," he said, almost to himself, "we didn’t let just anyone carry a blade."

His voice stayed even, but something colder edged into it. Like he was recounting a history carved into flesh, not written on scrolls.

"If you raised a blade, you proved your right with blood. If not—someone proved you wrong."

His gaze dropped again.

"I carved my path through corpses until even kings stepped aside. That sword you hold? You wouldn’t have lasted a day in my time."

Jin’s grip tightened around the hilt, but he didn’t bite back. He lifted the katana slightly, nodding toward the mist-choked sky above.

"And yet, here I am," he said. "In a place that’s apparently only meant for legends like yourself."

That got a pause.

Muramasa’s gaze drifted past him, slow and deliberate, scanning the world like it had changed without warning. Like something had broken the pattern.

He looked back at Jin. Not angry. Not curious.

Pensive.

"This isn’t where someone like you should end up," he said. "Not here. And not in my ground."

He stepped forward.

Jin kept his stance square, not flinching, though something in him twisted.

"I want to see it," Muramasa said.

"See what?"

"How you fight."

Jin blinked. "Didn’t we already do that?"

"You imitated something sacred of mine," Muramasa replied, flatly. "That’s not fighting."

He stepped to the side, circling slightly. His arms folded behind him. Watching. Waiting.

Jin glanced down at the katana in his hand.

He exhaled and took a step forward.

Then another.

His stance shifted automatically—muscle memory. One hand on the hilt, the other steadying the spine. The blade moved through the air in a wide horizontal arc, then a clean step back into a downward cut.

Another step, pivot, upward diagonal.

No flourish. No fancy trick.

Just... form.

He stopped after the third motion.

Silence stretched.

Muramasa’s face barely moved. But the air around him tightened like a blade being drawn.

"That," he said, "was nothing."

Jin straightened, brows drawing together. "It’s how I—"

"It’s how anyone swings a blade," Muramasa snapped.

He stepped forward once, jaw tight. Voice sharp.

"There was no breath behind it. No weight. No thought."

He pointed—two fingers at the katana in Jin’s hands.

"You didn’t move with it. You moved around it. And everything you did... was what any basic swordman could do."

Jin held the weapon tighter.

"That’s all I know."

Muramasa stared.

"Then it’s a shame," he muttered.

Muramasa turned his back.

Jin stayed where he was, blade lowered, breath steadying in the quiet. The echo of that final line—"a shame"—still hung behind his ears like smoke that refused to clear.

He glanced down at the katana in his grip, lips thinning, then looked up again.

"Those were just the basics," he said. "I never claimed to be—"

"Then don’t perform them like a warrior."

Muramasa’s voice came sharp and cold. He didn’t turn around.

Jin tensed.

"I wasn’t showing off."

"No," Muramasa said. "You were repeating."

Muramasa turned back to face him again, slow and deliberate, each step forward dragging the weight of judgment with it.

"You’ve learned the shapes. The cuts. You can mirror the rhythm of a swordsman. But I didn’t see an ounce of passion in your body. No sense of purpose. No connection."

He stopped a few paces short.

"It was swordplay with no soul."

Jin stayed silent, the broken katana steady in his grip.

Muramasa’s gaze lowered again, staring at the weapon as if the blade itself might explain the insult.

"You managed to imitate my form earlier. Sloppy, yes, but recognizable. A sacred technique—drawn by instinct?"

He looked up, eyes narrowing.

"That doesn’t happen unless something in you wants to understand. But now I see you move... and I wonder how you managed that at all."

Jin’s grip tightened, but he didn’t speak.

Muramasa’s tone cooled even further. Sharp. Final.

"You don’t know the sword. You don’t live it. You wear it like a coat when it’s convenient."

He raised his hand—and drew his katana.

No flourish. No speed.

Just motion.

And pressure.

The moment the blade cleared its sheath, the air thickened. The mist shrank back. The stone beneath their feet seemed to vibrate under the weight of something old.

Jin inhaled without meaning to.

It hit like a wave. Not pain. Not fear. Just gravity, but the kind you felt in your ribs.

Muramasa stood still, sword angled downward at his side.

"What did you feel just now?" he asked.

Jin’s voice came low. Honest.

"Pressure."

Muramasa gave the faintest nod.

"Correct."

He raised the blade slightly. Not threatening—just present. A line of metal that seemed to hum without sound.

"You felt that because this sword is mine."

His eyes locked onto Jin’s.

"Not by possession. Not by practice. By bond. By truth. Every cut I’ve made, every breath I’ve drawn with it in hand, has shaped its weight. When I draw this blade, it does not announce me—it is me."

He stepped forward, slow, unhurried.

"That pressure you felt? That was the echo of everything I’ve carved into the world."

He stopped within striking distance, though the blade stayed lowered.

"A blade held in fear wavers. A blade held in doubt shakes. But a blade held in truth—that settles into the air like judgment. That’s what you felt."

Jin’s eyes dropped to the sword. Then back to Muramasa’s face.

"You didn’t move like someone trying to protect something," Muramasa said, voice steady. "Or break something. Or claim something. You just moved."

"That’s not swordsmanship. That’s theater."

The words hit harder the second time.

Jin didn’t respond.

Muramasa slowly slid the katana back into its sheath.

The pressure lifted—not all at once, but like the room had exhaled.

He turned and walked again, toward the edge of the courtyard.

"Stop copying. Start becoming."

He stepped into the fog.

Jin stood still, the broken blade quiet in his grip, until the mist shifted enough to show the path ahead.

He followed.

Step after step into the mist, his broken blade still firm in hand. Muramasa didn’t look back. Didn’t slow. The silence stretched long between their footsteps, broken only by the occasional rustle of air that wasn’t quite wind.

Then, without turning, Muramasa spoke.

"Why are you still walking behind me?"

Jin didn’t hesitate.

"I want to learn."

Muramasa came to a stop.

His head turned slightly, not enough to show his face—just enough to let Jin know he was being looked at.

"You want to learn?"

Jin nodded once. "Yes."

There was a pause.

Then Muramasa turned fully, stepping close again with that same oppressive calm. His eyes bored into Jin, unreadable and cold.

"I don’t have time to teach a child," he said. "Go back to wherever you came from. This place is not for you."

Jin stood his ground.

"I didn’t come here to play."

Muramasa didn’t answer.

He just watched.

The mist curled at their feet, and something shifted in the air—subtle but wrong.

Jin blinked.

The stone beneath them rumbled, just once. Not enough to throw him off balance, but enough to notice.

Then the sky—fractured and still above—began to pulse.

A faint light.

Dim at first. Then brighter. A slow, growing flare behind the shattered clouds like something was waking. Or watching.

Jin squinted into the glare.

"What is that...?"

Muramasa looked up—expression still unreadable.

But he said nothing.

The light flared again.

Brighter this time.

Then, without warning, Jin’s knees buckled. Not from pain—something else. Like gravity had shifted beneath him. Like the air itself had turned sideways.

His vision warped. The courtyard twisted at the edges. His limbs felt wrong. Unanchored.

"Mura—" he started, breath catching.

Then the world yanked away.

The last thing he saw was Muramasa’s silhouette, standing calm beneath the breaking sky.

Unmoving.

Watching.

And then—

White.