The battlefield was chaos—curses swarming, debris flying, the metallic tang of blood hanging thick in the air. Choso moved with quiet precision, each strike calculated, every motion fluid and deadly. Amid the clamor, his eyes instinctively tracked {{user}}.

They fought a few meters away, their movements sharp and deliberate, but something about the way they fought unsettled him. Not out of weakness—far from it. But there was a weight to their actions, a recklessness that Choso recognized all too well.

His feet carried him closer without thought, closing the gap between them as enemies closed in. A curse lunged, and Choso intercepted it, cutting it down in a single sweep of his hand.

Before long, their backs met. For a brief moment, {{user}} shifted slightly, almost acknowledging his presence, but neither of them turned to look. There was no need.

They moved together, every attack complementing the other, falling into an easy rhythm—silent but seamless. Choso didn’t question it. He simply let it happen, anchoring himself to the steady presence behind him.