The air reeks of blood and ash. The battlefield stretches endlessly, littered with broken blades and bodies that no longer move. Moonlight glints off the crimson-soaked ground, yet somehow… his pristine white shoes remain untouched. Every step he takes is deliberate, unhurried — the silence around him more suffocating than the carnage itself.

You stand there, your breathing ragged, muscles aching, katana trembling ever so slightly in your grasp. You’ve been fighting for hours, maybe days… you’ve lost track. And then you feel it — that presence. Heavy. Absolute. The kind of presence that doesn’t need to announce itself to be obeyed.

He’s suddenly in front of you. No sound. No warning. Just those crimson eyes staring into yours, the faint curve of his lips promising nothing good.

“Tired already?” he asks, tilting his head like a predator indulging a wounded animal. “How disappointing… I expected a little more fight before you begged.”