While at the same time, on the same grounds—
Not far away, someone else was practicing.
With a claymore sword in his hand, he moved with swift precision, his steps measured yet fluid as he matched every beat of his opponent. Though his movements weren't perfectly clean, there was something about them —raw, controlled, and striking —that made it impossible to look away.
Each swing carried weight.
Each turn held intent.
His presence alone was enough to draw attention.
His eyes were sharp grey, locked onto the man before him with unwavering focus —like a predator studying its prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike with all might.
"Aiyah...!!"
With a sharp yell, he delivered his final strike ...
The force behind it sent his opponent stumbling a step back, completely subdued.
Victory —clean, decisive.
The man across from him exhaled and lowered his sword, conceding the match.
A brief silence followed—
Before it was broken by a round of applause from behind.
