(Meanwhile, Planet Ixtal, The Old Stone Castle, Soron's POV)
Soron stood alone in the outer training quarters of the old stone castle as he quietly debated whether he should even attempt to train at all, the question lingering heavily in his mind while the cold air pressed against his decaying skin.
"Hah—"
A long sigh slipped from his throat as he chuckled softly, studying the miserable state his once-mighty body had been reduced to, his breath shaking as he acknowledged what he had tried so long to ignore.
His skin now hung loosely from his bones, sagging weakly with every movement, while streaks of thick black goo seeped slowly from the countless wounds carved long ago by the cursed Origin Dagger, as at this stage there existed not a single joint in his body that did not pulse with relentless aching pain, each throb reminding him just how far he had fallen from the warrior he used to be.
"I really do not wish to move any more than I am absolutely required to.
