At the far edge of the deathfield. Against not one but two writhing Deathworms, a young man stood unshaken, his presence as sharp as the blade in his hands.
His hair, silvery-white, glistened faintly beneath the dying light of the horizon, and his eyes carried a frosted stillness that seemed to make even the air itself wary of disturbing him—Leon.
Suspended above the ground, his form barely disturbed the air currents. In his grip was a sword of glacial elegance, its edge shimmering with a pale, crystalline frost that wept cold into the surrounding atmosphere. Even at a distance, it seemed to sing with freezing intent.
Swish— Swish—
Two sharp arcs cut across the air as Leon swung, his movements economical and precise. From the edge of his blade, crystalline shards surged forth, streaking through the open space with relentless speed. They howled through the deathfield like shards of winter, whistling toward their grotesque targets.
The Deathworms shrieked.
