The darkness breathed with silent menace, thick like ink and ever shifting. Wandering souls continued to swarm in from the void—twisted, screeching remnants of the dead who never found peace, each driven by primal hunger and resentment. Yet amid the black, two young figures danced with steel.
Kaelen and Kelvin.
They had long stopped relying on vision.
Their senses had deepened into something instinctual, something that bordered on primal awareness. Their blades were no longer tools—they were extensions of their very soul, slicing through the dark as if guided by fate.
Kaelen, wielding the Blade of Eternity, shifted between postures as smoothly as flowing water. His feet barely made a sound on the stone beneath. His strikes came like whispers—sharp, silent, and decisive. He didn't waste movement. Every dodge was a transition into a strike, every breath aligned with the beat of his heart and the dance of death.
