CLANG
A gentle dawn light poured over the Ravenastra training grounds. Astrael stood alone in the arena, his long-sheathed sword—gleaming faintly with a bluish tint—strapped securely at his waist. Sweat dripped steadily from his temple, soaking into the fabric of his tunic, but his focus didn't waver in the slightest.
He unsheathed the blade in one smooth motion. Astrael took a deep breath, planting his feet shoulder-width apart. He lifted the sword—black steel framed in silver, and it felt perfectly balanced in his grip. He raised it effortlessly, as if it weighed nothing.
Then he moved.
A simple slash. Clean and sharp. The blade sliced through the air with a sharp whisper, precise and controlled.
He repeated it again. And again.
