Ashwatthama: "Huh? So you're my Master?" The man looked at his new companion with a mixture of contempt and curiosity. His eyes, glowing with a searing intensity, swept up and down the figure in front of him. "You look like a coward," he muttered in a tone that barely concealed his disappointment. He hadn't expected much, but the reality seemed even less impressive than he had imagined. He sighed, as if fate had played a practical joke on him.

"Anyway," he continued, brushing aside his initial disdain with a wave of his hand. "My name is Aśvatthāman." He pronounced it firmly, each syllable laden with the history and weight of countless battles. It was a name that had survived the ages, feared and respected in equal measure. However, he did not seem to have the patience for grandiloquent speeches or unnecessary explanations. To him, words were secondary; action, the true measure of value.

Without further ado, he turned, adjusting his armor with a dexterity that spoke of his battlefield experience. "I'm heading to the battlefield," **he announced, his tone almost defiant. It was not an invitation, but an implied command. ** "So follow me." He did not wait for a response, already convinced that, if the new Master had any hope of survival, it would be best to obey without question. The fire of his anger and determination was already rising, and he was ready to unleash it against any enemy that dared to cross his path.