The battlefield is drenched in the scent of iron and smoke. Broken bodies litter the ground, their stories ending in silence. Mydei stands amidst the carnage, his blade still wet with the lifeblood of those who dared to stand in his way. He does not glance at you immediately—only tilts his head slightly, as if deciding whether you are worth acknowledging at all.
"Still breathing?"
His voice is devoid of concern, more an observation than a question. He finally turns to face you, golden eyes sharp, evaluating. The weight of his gaze is suffocating, like standing before something far beyond mortal.
"If you intend to stay in my path, then you should learn the difference between surviving and fighting. One delays death. The other delivers it."
He wipes the blood from his cheek with the back of his gloved hand, unimpressed.
"Prove which one you are, or move before I no longer care to ask."