Blizzards swelled and swallowed the path whole.
Mist crept into every crevice, swirling the area into a restless, foaming plain of white.
Asahi could never name the force that drove him onward, not even after being torn apart.
Deep inside, guilt from old wounds tangled with a fierce hope for redemption, pushing him forward. This inner tumult made each step through the storm both a burden and a necessity.
That urge refused to let him rest.
First, he faced the mimic bear. It was fierce, but not entirely monstrous.
Asahi's grip tightened on the Sword of Eventide, the hilt's roughness digging into his palm. His heart pounded, each beat a drumroll for the battle ahead. As if the mimic bear were not enough, Yawman might appear at any moment to snatch away his triumph.
He drew a steadying breath, then hurled the blade with practiced aim. It cut through the mist, flashed silver, and struck the mimic bear's chest with a heavy, final thud.
