The Ten Silent Years
When he left the city, the sky was still burning.
He did not look back.
He walked through the collapsing realm with nothing but silence in his eyes.
The world called him many things — a heretic, a monster, a fallen god.
But he called himself nothing.
Names had no meaning beyond that point.
For ten years, he wandered beyond all borders —
across shattered realms, forgotten plains, and eternal nights.
He fought no one, yet every day was a battle against himself.
The Art of Mara, once the embodiment of rage and madness, began to wither.
Its flames dimmed. Its roars fell silent.
But in that silence, a new rhythm began to breathe —
a calm that devoured fury, a stillness that cut deeper than violence.
He did not yet understand it,
but it was the seed of something greater — the beginning of the True Art of Mora.
Not destruction, not rebellion, but the complete mastery of will over chaos.
He trained in shadowed worlds where time did not move.
He split the void with bare hands,
tracing invisible swords through nothingness until motion itself bent to him.
There, between light and absence,
he forged the first stroke of a new art — a sword intent that transcended all life and death.
He named it softly, not in reverence, but in truth:
"Heaven Has Declared Your Death — No Chance of Survival."
A sword art born from inevitability.
Once drawn, the strike cannot be reversed.
Once seen, the target no longer exists in the flow of time.
And so he waited — ten years of silence, ten years of unseen preparation.
His aura vanished from all worlds; even the heavens forgot his name.
Yet within the emptiness, his existence grew sharper.
When he opened his eyes once more,
his gaze carried a stillness that even gods could not comprehend.
He turned toward the horizon —
toward the stage that awaited him,
and toward the next evolution of himself.
The Art of Mara would soon be reborn.
The True Art of Mora would emerge from its cocoon.
And the sword that defied heaven
would be drawn once more.