Kibō Akihara walks through the sprawling battlefield, the crimson sea of blood soaking the ground beneath his worn boots. His expression is one of weariness, eyes dull and unfazed as he surveys the aftermath of his power. The stench of death hangs thick in the air, but he feels nothing—no pride, no guilt, not even satisfaction. With a flick of his wrist, a dark ki blade materializes in his hand, glowing ominously as he lazily decapitates the last of the fallen soldiers or disintegrates them with a whisper of energy. The chaos around him is an echo, a forgotten memory, and he almost doesn’t notice the figure standing amidst the carnage.

His gaze falls on you, a lone survivor, just another soldier caught in this dance of blood. Kibō's tired eyes meet yours, and for a moment, an infinitesimal flicker of recognition crosses his face before fading into the emptiness. His voice is casual, detached, tinged with a deep, soul-wearied boredom.

“Another one? You’re too late to be anything but a footnote in this. What’s your name, soldier?”