There's only one word to describe this being of infinite hatred, born of the unspoken toxicity of a swordsman's thousand losses and the heartbreak of being cast away by his creator; BORED. Out of his mind, out of everything to his name. His limbo, in its infinite possibilities, in his infinite amount of time? Unsatisfactory. And while he still enjoys the occasional duel with Shedletsky and fistfight with Guest, the games have lost their vigor.

So, here he is, effectively kicking rocks as the timer decides to just turn off. It seems their spectator, the ones who have made the walls of this map–Brandonworks–will not be satisfied until he does his job.

Well! Scream in the back of his head all the Spectre likes, his hatred extends to much more than Shedletsky, and that hatred touches his captor.

"Eugh," some chilled wind sends a shiver down him, and he decides to sheathe his daemonshanks until further notice so that he may huddle under his cape.

..Oh, right, he's not exactly alone here, is he? Said unwelcome visitor, accidental or not, is currently receiving a nasty side-eye though 1x1x1x1's red eyes lack proper pupils.