The world was not black. It was a blinding, sterile white.
There was no sky, no ground, no horizon. Just an endless expanse of sideways skyscrapers jutting out of a turbulent ocean of grey clouds. It was a world of inverted gravity and broken logic.
Blake Corvus opened his eyes. He wasn't in pain. The agony of his back being flayed by Acnologia was gone. The exhaustion of the twenty-one-day battle was gone. In fact, he felt weightless.
He stood up, his boots clicking against the glass window of a skyscraper that served as the floor.
"We meet again, huh?" Blake muttered, his voice echoing in the vast emptiness.
"You took your sweet time waking up, King."
Blake looked up. Perched on a flagpole protruding horizontally from a nearby building was a figure identical to him. But where Blake was color and shadow, this figure was the inverse. White skin, white hair, hollow eyes with golden irises, and a manic, predatory grin that stretched too wide across his face. He wore a white version of the Bankai coat, rippling in a wind that didn't exist.
The manifestation of his sword. Zangetsu.
"I assume I'm not dead," Blake said, dusting off his coat. "Or is this the afterlife? It's a bit monotonous."
"Dead?" Zangetsu laughed, a sound like grinding metal. "Close. Very close. You burned your candle at both ends, threw the wax into the fire, and then tried to fight the sun. Your body is shattered. Your soul is a thread."
Zangetsu hopped down, landing silently. He drew his sword—a pristine, white Tensa Zangetsu.
"But no, you aren't dead. You're here. In the box. With me."
Blake sighed, reaching for his own sword. It materialized in his hand, heavy and familiar. "So, what now? Do I just sit here until my body heals?"
"Sit?" Zangetsu tilted his head, his grin widening until it looked painful. "Oh, no. You don't get to sit. You don't get to rest. You challenged a Dragon King, Blake. You survived by the skin of your teeth. And do you know why you nearly died?"
Zangetsu vanished.
CLANG.
Sparks flew inches from Blake's face. He had instinctively raised his sword to block a strike that would have taken his head off. Zangetsu was pressing down, his golden eyes burning with malice.
"Because you are weak," Zangetsu hissed.
Blake gritted his teeth, shoving Zangetsu back. "I won the fight."
"You survived!" Zangetsu roared, spinning and launching a crescent of white energy.
Blake rolled to the side, the blast vaporizing the building he had been standing on.
"Listen to me, King!" Zangetsu shouted, walking through the smoke. "This time, you will not be leaving so easily. In the outside world, you are broken. Here? You are mine."
He pointed his blade at Blake's heart.
"If you want to leave this world, you will have to defeat me. You have to kill me. You have to prove that your instinct to live is stronger than my instinct to kill."
"And if I lose?" Blake asked, settling into a stance.
Zangetsu's eyes narrowed. "Then your consciousness fades. You become a vegetable. Forever."
Blake tightened his grip. "I can't have that. I promised people I'd be back."
"Then show me!" Zangetsu screamed, lunging forward. "Show me your fangs!"
Time in the inner world was a lie. It stretched and compressed, looped and fractured.
They fought.
For the first "day," Blake fought defensively. He tried to reason with his other half. He tried to find a rhythm.
Zangetsu punished him for it. He slashed Blake's chest and kicked him through the windows.
"Too slow! Too soft! Are you afraid to cut me?!"
By the first "week," Blake stopped talking. The pain here felt real. The fatigue felt real. If he stopped moving, Zangetsu would stab him. If he closed his eyes for more than a second, a blade would be at his throat.
There was no sleep. There was no food. There was only the clash of steel on steel.
By the first "month," Blake's technique began to change. The intricate, calculated swordplay he had learned was stripped away. It was too slow. Against a reflection that knew his every move, calculation was death.
He had to stop thinking. He had to become pure reaction.
Clang. Parry. Strike. Dodge. Step. Slash.
The fight dragged on. The scenery changed. Sometimes they fought in a burning city. Sometimes in a desert of white sand. Sometimes underwater.
Blake lost track of time. Had it been a year? Two years?
His uniform was in tatters. His body was covered in wounds that healed only to be opened again.
Zangetsu was relentless. He was a monster of stamina and aggression.
"Is that all?!" Zangetsu mocked, locking blades with Blake. "You want to go back to them? To that guild? To those women? You aren't strong enough to protect them! Acnologia will return! He said so! And next time, he will eat you alive!"
"Shut... UP!" Blake roared.
He headbutted Zangetsu. The impact cracked the white porcelain mask of the hollow.
Blake didn't retreat. He pressed the attack. He abandoned defense. He swung with the intent to kill, to destroy, to consume.
Years passed. Or maybe decades.
The concept of "Blake Corvus" began to erode. He was just a sword. He was just a will to survive.
He learned to mix his Haki with his Reiryoku perfectly. He learned to predict Zangetsu's chaotic movements.
Finally, after an eternity of combat, the moment came.
They stood on the tip of a skyscraper.
Zangetsu charged, screaming, a final, desperate strike aimed at Blake's neck.
Blake didn't dodge. He stepped into the range of death.
He saw the opening. A fraction of a second where Zangetsu's guard faltered.
Blake's blade moved faster than thought.
SHING.
They passed each other.
Silence returned to the white world.
A thin line of blood appeared on Zangetsu's chest. The white sword shattered in his hands.
Zangetsu fell to his knees. He coughed, blood spattering on the invisible floor.
He looked up at Blake. The manic grin was gone. In its place was a look of calm satisfaction.
"Heh..." Zangetsu chuckled weakly. "Took you... long enough... King."
Blake lowered his sword. He felt old. He felt like he had lived a thousand lifetimes in this white hell.
"Is it over?" Blake asked.
Zangetsu began to fade, dissolving into particles of white light that flowed into Blake's chest.
"For now," Zangetsu whispered. "You're strong now. Sharper. Don't... let me... down."
He vanished.
Blake stood alone in the silence.
He sheathed his sword. The white world began to crack, fissures of light breaking through the grey sky.
"Time to go home," Blake whispered.
He closed his eyes and let the light take him.
---
While Blake fought a war of decades in his mind, the world outside continued its slow, indifferent march.
Leaves turned orange and fell from the trees of the East Forest. Snow blanketed the roof of Porlyusica's hut, turning the woods into a silent wonderland. Then the ice melted, flowers bloomed, and the cycle repeated.
Once. Twice.
Two years.
For two years, the hero of Tenrou Island lay in a bed in the corner of the apothecary's hut.
His condition had stabilized, but he had changed. The muscle mass he had built through years of training had atrophied. His skin was pale. His cheekbones were sharp, his face gaunt. Tubes of magic lacquer fed him nutrients, and spells kept his blood flowing, but he was a shadow of the man who had uppercut a dragon.
Yet, he was never alone.
Every day, without fail, Mirajane Strauss and Cana Alberona were there.
They had an unspoken schedule. Mornings were for Mira. Evenings were for Cana. They changed his bandages, washed him, read to him, and held his hand. They anchored him to the world.
It was a Tuesday morning in late spring. Sunlight filtered through the leaves, dappling the wooden floor of the room.
Mirajane sat in the chair beside the bed. She had a bowl of warm water and a fresh cloth. She looked older than she had two years ago. Her smile was still gentle, but her eyes held a permanent shadow of worry.
She wrung out the cloth and gently wiped Blake's forehead.
"The guild is lively today," she spoke softly to the sleeping man. "Natsu got into a fight with Gray again. They destroyed three tables. Master was furious, but I think he secretly misses the noise."
She moved to wipe his hand—the hand that had held the sword against Acnologia. It was thin now, the calluses fading.
"You're missing it, Blake," she whispered, her voice trembling slightly. "It's been two years. Wendy is taller. Romeo started training. Everyone is moving forward."
She squeezed his hand.
"Everyone but us. Please... just wake up. You promised."
She looked down at his hand, resting in hers.
Suddenly, she felt it.
A twitch.
It was faint. A microscopic contraction of the index finger.
Mira froze. She held her breath, thinking she had imagined it.
Then, it happened again. His thumb brushed against her palm.
Mira gasped, dropping the cloth into the water with a splash. Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
"Blake?" she whispered.
His eyelids fluttered. Just a tremor.
Panic and hope exploded in her chest. She shot out of her chair, knocking it over.
"Porlyusica-san!" Mira screamed, sprinting for the door. "PORLYUSICA-SAN! HE MOVED! HE MOVED!"
She tore out of the room, running toward the herb garden where the healer was gathering roots.
It took five minutes for Porlyusica to gather her things and for Mira to practically drag the elderly woman back to the hut.
"Calm down, girl!" Porlyusica snapped, though she was moving with urgency. "Muscle spasms are common in long-term coma patients! Don't get your hopes up just to have them crushed!"
"No!" Mira insisted, tears streaming down her face. "It was different! He squeezed my hand! I felt it!"
They reached the door. Mira fumbled with the handle, her hands shaking so badly she could barely turn it.
She threw the door open.
"Blake, please be—"
Her voice died in her throat.
There on the bed sat Blake, bathed in the warm spring breeze.
He was wearing the loose white sleeping tunic he had been dressed in. He was thin—painfully thin. His shoulders were bony, his arms lacking the definition they once had. His hair had grown long, reaching past his shoulders in a messy black cascade.
He was looking out at the forest, watching a bluebird hop across a branch.
He heard the door open and turned his head slowly.
His face was gaunt, but his eyes... his eyes were alive. They were sharp, clear, and filled with wisdom.
"Blake..." Mira breathed, her hands covering her mouth.
Blake blinked, his eyes adjusting to her presence. He offered a small, tired smile. His voice was rough, like gravel grinding together, unused for years.
"Hey, Mira."
Mira didn't think. She moved.
She crossed the room in a blur. She didn't care about the medical equipment. She didn't care about Porlyusica.
She reached him and wrapped her arms around him, burying her face in his neck. She was careful—so careful—not to crush him, treating him like he was made of glass, but she held him with a desperation that spoke of seven hundred and thirty days of fear.
"You're awake," she sobbed into his shoulder. "You're really awake."
Blake froze for a second, surprised by the sudden contact, but then he relaxed. He slowly raised his thin arms and returned the embrace. He ran his hand up and down her back, a soothing, familiar rhythm.
He smelled the lavender in her hair. It was the only thing that felt real after the eternity of the white void.
"Miss me?" Blake rasped, a hint of his old teasing tone breaking through the weakness.
Mira pulled back slightly, just enough to look him in the eyes. Tears were streaming down her face freely but she had never looked more beautiful. She laughed, a wet, choked sound.
"Very much," she whispered. "So very much, you idiot."
"Ahem."
A sharp cough from the doorway broke the moment.
Porlyusica stood there, arms crossed, trying to look stern but failing to hide the relief in her eyes.
"As touching as this is," the healer grumbled, walking forward, "I need to check if his brain is actually functioning or if he's just running on reflexes. Move aside, Mira."
Mira reluctantly let go, though she sat on the edge of the bed, keeping a hand on Blake's arm as if afraid he would vanish if she let go.
Porlyusica began her examination. She checked his pupils, his pulse, his reflexes. She ran a magical scan over his body.
"Hmph," Porlyusica grunted. "Your vitals are stable. You're not going to die yet."
Blake rolled his shoulders, wincing at the stiffness. "I feel like I've been run over by a train. And then the train backed up and ran over me again. How long was I out? A week? Two?"
Porlyusica stopped packing her bag. She looked at Blake with a serious expression.
"Blake," she said evenly. "You have been in a comatose state for two years."
The room went silent. A bird chirped outside.
Blake blinked. He looked at Porlyusica. He looked at Mira.
"Come again?"
"Two years," Mira confirmed softly, squeezing his arm. "It's the year X786. You missed... a lot."
Blake stared at his hands. They were pale and trembling slightly.
"Two years..." he whispered.
In his mind, he had fought Zangetsu for decades. He had lived a lifetime in that white hell. He felt old.
But in reality, only two years had passed.
"I see," Blake exhaled, leaning back against the window frame. "That explains why I feel like a skeleton. Two years... I slept through the whole aftermath."
"You didn't sleep," Porlyusica corrected. "You fought to survive. And you won. Now, lie back down before you pass out from exhaustion. Your muscles are practically jelly."
Blake chuckled dryly. "Yes, ma'am."
He allowed Mira to help him back onto the pillows. He felt weak, incredibly so. Lifting his arm felt like lifting a lead weight. But he was alive.
Just then, the sound of footsteps approached the hut. They were heavy, tired footsteps, accompanied by the clinking of glass bottles.
"Hey, Porlyusica," a familiar, husky voice called out from the front room. "I brought more supplies. And I think I'm gonna need something for a headache, today was a long..."
Cana Alberona walked into the room.
She was carrying a bag of groceries and a bottle of wine. Her hair was longer, tied back in a messy ponytail. She looked tired, wearing a cloak over her usual bikini top and pants.
She stopped dead in the doorway.
Her eyes locked onto the bed.
She saw Mira sitting there, smiling through tears.
And she saw Blake. Awake. Watching her with a soft grin.
The grocery bag slipped from her fingers.
Apples rolled across the floor. The bottle of wine hit the ground and shattered, red liquid pooling around her boots like blood, but she didn't even flinch.
"Hey, Cana," Blake said softly. "You drop your booze? That's a sin, you know."
Cana's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her lower lip began to tremble. Her eyes filled with tears instantly, overflowing before she could even blink.
"You..." she choked out.
She didn't run. She walked forward, her steps shaky, like she was walking on a tightrope. She reached the side of the bed opposite Mira.
She looked at him, searching for any sign that this was a dream or a cruel illusion.
She reached out and touched his cheek. Her fingers were warm.
"You're awake," she whispered, her voice breaking.
"Yeah," Blake said, leaning into her touch. "I'm back."
Cana let out a sound that was half-laugh, half-sob. She collapsed forward, burying her face in his chest, hugging him fiercely.
"You jerk!" she cried, her voice muffled by his shirt. "You absolute jerk! You kept us waiting for so long! Do you have any idea... do you have any idea how scared I was?!"
Blake winced slightly at the pressure on his atrophied ribs, but he didn't push her away. He wrapped his other arm around her, resting his chin on the top of her head.
He looked at the two women. Mira on his left, holding his hand and weeping silently. Cana on his right, clinging to him like a lifeline, sobbing her heart out.
He realized then that the fight with Zangetsu wasn't the hardest part. The hardest part was seeing the pain his absence had caused.
"I'm sorry," Blake whispered, closing his eyes. "I'm sorry I made you both wait. I'm sorry I took so long."
"Just shut up," Cana sobbed, gripping his shirt tighter. "Just shut up and don't leave again."
"I won't," Blake promised. "I'm not going anywhere."
Porlyusica watched the scene from the corner of the room. She was a woman who disliked humans and their noisy emotions. But for once, she didn't yell. She didn't wave her broom.
She simply picked up her medical bag and quietly slipped out of the room, closing the door softly behind her.
She figured the boy needed this medicine more than anything she could brew in a pot.
Inside the room, the sun climbed higher, bathing the three mages in the light of a new day. The long nightmare was over. The sleeper had awakened. And for the first time in two years, the future looked bright.