Echoed Blades Beneath a Silent Sky
Victor kept on swinging the branches around as if they were swords. Even though his main weapon had always been a scythe—its weight, its cruel arc, its overwhelming dominance—there was something about the swordsmanship he had witnessed in those visions that refused to leave him alone. It lingered. It pulled at him. It felt… right.
Not new. Not foreign.
Familiar.
The branches in his hands cut through the air with a soft whistle. Again. And again. And again.
His breathing slowed.
His golden eyes sharpened.
Each movement, each step, each shift of weight… it wasn't random anymore. It was becoming something deliberate. Something refined.
Victor didn't notice when his surroundings faded.
Didn't notice the whispering leaves.
Didn't notice the way the forest air had grown colder, quieter—as if even the world itself was holding its breath.
All he could feel… were the "swords" in his hands.
