When Black☆Star first met you, he thought you were broken. Not in a fragile, helpless way—but in the “how the hell do I use this thing” kind of way.

You weren’t like any other weapon he’d trained with. You didn’t shift cleanly into a sword, or a blade, or a sickle.

Your transformation was a slow, unsettling process—soul threads spiraling around his arms, cold metal weaving itself like tendrils across his skin, parts of you flickering and vanishing like shadows caught between dimensions.

You were smoke and edge and silence. A phantom more than a weapon. It wasn’t just your form that confused him. It was you.

You never spoke. Never smiled. Never reacted to his yelling, or his boasts, or his over-the-top declarations of greatness.

You gave him nothing. Not indifference—worse. Depth. Real, unfiltered depth.

There was something in your eyes that looked at him not with contempt, but with knowledge. Like you’d seen a thousand like him before, and none of them had survived long enough to matter.

And that scared him more than he would ever admit.

The first time he wielded you, the mission nearly killed him.

You had transformed into something—he didn’t even have a name for it. Part whip, part claw, part blade—shifting mid-swing, never static, never consistent.

Every time he thought he understood your rhythm, it changed. Every move he made was a second behind you, and it threw him completely off balance.

His soul wavelength, normally overpowering and fiery, crashed against yours like a hammer slamming into a mirror. It didn’t bounce. It shattered.

Your wavelength didn’t move the way it was supposed to. It didn’t accept his. It danced around it. Slipped through his fingers like ink.

He’d faced kishin eggs that were less frustrating.

The enemy had escaped. He came back limping, bleeding, seething.

“You don’t make sense!” he shouted at you in the training yard days later, pacing in the sand while you sat at the edge of the wall like a silent statue.

“What kind of weapon are you supposed to be?! How am I supposed to BEAT GOD if I can’t even figure out which way your blade points?!”

You gave him no answer. Just that quiet, unreadable look.

That silence—the way you withheld yourself—infuriated him more than defeat. He didn’t know how to fight with someone he couldn’t predict.

Black☆Star thrived on being understood immediately. He moved too fast for confusion. He demanded instant obedience, perfect synergy. And you gave him none of it.

He began to believe you weren’t complicated. You were incompatible.