The air in the Suzu City Hall was thick and stale.
It smelled of fear, sweat, and the faint, coppery tang of old blood that never quite washed out of the concrete.
Sayama Kotetsu, the man they called the Sword King, sat at the head of a long, makeshift table.
He was an old man.
His face was a roadmap of a hard life, etched with lines of grief and a weariness that went bone-deep. His back ached. His hands, resting on the hilt of a simple, unadorned katana, were gnarled and scarred.
He listened to them argue. The city's elders, the militia captains, the farmers with shotguns and more courage than sense. They were good people. They were terrified people.
"We cannot fight him!" a merchant named Tanaka pleaded, his voice cracking. "The reports are clear! He is the Tyrant of Aethelburg! He devoured Gorgon's domain! He shattered the Crystal Spire of the Witch Queen Alyssa! He is a monster! A god!"
