Blade Existence

[He loves me, doesn't he?]

Kabel, the hooded figure shrouded in whispers and the chill of unforgiving destinies, trudges through the vast expanse of a land seized by the icy grip of winter. Each step is a silent testament to his will, each breath a ghostly fog dissipating into the frigid air. The snow beneath his boots crunches, compact and crisp, an endless blanket of white that stretches towards the horizon. As he moves through the silent world, the ethereal sounds of distant, frozen branches clattering in the winter wind are his only company.

The sky above is a tapestry of twilight hues, where the indigo of the deepening night marries the last golden kisses of the setting sun. Stars begin to twinkle into existence, like sentinels watching over the silent tale of the traveler below. The air is filled with the faint scent of pine and the underlying sharpness of cold—a scent that seems almost to carry the whispered secrets of the lands through which Kabel moves.

He enters a mythical valley, where the tales of old speak of nymphs and spirits that once danced upon the now snow-sheathed meadow. Here, the sky shifts—a brilliant shade of violet, pierced by an argent moon hanging low and thoughtful. The snow sparkles under the celestial glow, imbuing the landscape with an otherworldly splendor, while shadows play among the silvery trees, teasing at the corner of Kabel's vision—perhaps remnants of the valley's magical denizens, now reticent in the presence of an interloper.

Pushing onwards, Kabel finds himself beside an ancient river—veins of dark water cutting through the ice. In this place, the sky is a somber grey, heavy with the unshed sorrow of snowflakes yet to fall. A sorrow mirrored in the slow, deliberate movements of the water beneath the ice. Occasionally, shapes dart beneath the surface—lithe water serpents adorned with scales that catch the meager light, a fleeting, shimmering promise of life enduring amidst the seasonal death.

[It's his first day In this world, and he refuses to sleep, he is determined to get back to his world alive]

As his journey continues, the silhouette of a majestic forest looms ahead. The pines, regal and towering, stand as stoic guardians of the natural temple they form. Here, the sky blooms with an ethereal green, auroras dancing across the heavens in a spectral ballet. The sound of life persists despite the cold—the hoot of an owl, the rustle of a hare darting for cover, the distant howl of a lone wolf—that piercing cry echoing amongst the trunks stretching up to brush the luminous sky.

Kabel arrives at the edge of a daunting mountain range, where jagged peaks bite at the sky, which here is a deep blue, dark and infinite, where stars shine with unyielding ferocity. The crunch of Kabel's steps is drowned by the howling wind that carves through the canyons. It carries the scent of ice and hidden caverns, where creatures of scales and fury slumber, waiting for the thaw to venture forth once more.

He descends into a vast, frozen plain, where the sky is a clear, icy azure, unmarred by cloud or storm. In the stark openness, Kabel observes distant figures—a caravan braving the tundra, their fur-lined cloaks billowing against the wind. They're silent, a moving column of resilience. The clinking of their wares, and the determined snorts of their snow-draped beasts, punctuate the quietude that otherwise dominates the frosted heath.

Past the plain, Kabel enters a ghostly wood, where the trees are barren and the sky a melancholic lavender fading into obsidian darkness. A chorus of whispers seems to emanate from the gnarled branches, as if the very air mourns for the life that winter has stilled. Here there is no animal call, no snap of twig—only the whispers, and the singular cloaked figure moving through them, disturbing the silence.

As dawn creeps upon the land, Kabel emerges into a valley where magnificent ruins stand, relics of civilizations past. They are blanketed in snow but cannot be tamed by it, their broken columns reaching for the burgeoning light. The sky, a canvas of soft pink and orange, heralds the new day, while the silence of the ruins is broken by the distant sound of a shepherd's flute, mournful and haunting, as if giving voice to the lost glory of the stones.

[He endured hard training in his world..]

Venturing forth, he finds a hamlet nestled at the foot of a slumbering volcano, whose peak threatens the heavens. The sky is a ruddy copper, reflecting the giant's dormant power. The people are shadows, scuttling from hearth to hearth, their faces hidden deep within their cloaks. The scent of burning wood mingles with the sulfuric promise of the mountain, and the quiet mutter of humble lives unfolds around him, unnoticed and uncaring of the assassin in their midst.

Moving through a sleeping forest draped in a heavy shroud of snow, Kabel emerges onto a precipice overlooking a valley where the sky bleeds into a canvas of fiery red and burnt orange. The echoes of legends seem to seep from the very stones beneath him, and far below, a lone figure, a monk perhaps, travels steadily on a path that has known the footsteps of pilgrims and the blood of warriors in equal measure.

Descending from the heights, he encounters the Silvermere—the lake famed in song, its waters unfrozen even in the heart of winter due to the magical springs that feed it from below. The sky above mirrors the lake, a brilliant shade of cerulean blue with streaks of white clouds gliding like ethereal ships. The gentle lapping of the waters against the icy shore provides a rhythmic serenade, while winged creatures with feathers of lustrous silver dive and soar, performing an aerial dance for the solitary witness to their splendor.

As dusk approaches, the horizon is aflame with the embers of day turning to night, and Kabel reaches the outskirts of a once-majestic citadel, now fallen into disrepair. The sky here is tinged with a sorrowful purple, the stars beginning to peek through like distant diamonds. Twisted spires and shattered gateways tell of sieges endured and prosperity lost. Amidst the rubble, the remnants of civilization persist—a blacksmith's hammer rings out in a steady, hopeful rhythm, while children, bundled against the cold, chase each other through the remnants of glory, their laughter a defiant spark in the growing twilight.

[Laughter..Kabel has never laughed. Sure when he was a child, but now..none.]

The path leads him to a stony pass that carves its way through a mountain's embrace. Snow drifts lie heavy against sheer cliffs where the sky unfolds in a majestic tapestry of midnight blue and the first hints of jade. The sound of his footsteps seems to call forth whispers from the deep crevices and hidden caves where creatures with glowing eyes regard the interloper with curious malice before slinking back into the dark recesses of the earth.

In the dead of night, Kabel stumbles upon an otherworldly oasis, a verdant glen untouched by winter's frost. Here, the sky is absent, replaced by an enchanted dome of woven branches that emit a soft luminescence. The air hums with the vibrancy of life—glow worms weave patterns of light, and a gentle stream sings the melody of never-ending flow. A centaur family stops at the water's edge, their equine forms melding with the shadows, a fleeting touch of myth amidst the stillness.

He journeys on, under a canopy of threatening clouds where the sky shifts into a mournful gray, heavy with the threat of a storm. Ahead lies a battlefield, fresh scars upon the land where the snow is trampled, stained with the dark ink of spilled blood. Ghastly cries of unseen crows cut through the air, while the souls of the fallen seem to rise like mist from the disturbed earth, pleading for remembrance and peace.

[His first day here, he didn't panic. He knew he had died, and accepted it, but was quick to accept going back.]

Upon exiting the somber site, Kabel marvels as the heavens bloom with an aurora of deep indigo, pierced by the shimmering arrow of a comet's trail. Here, the trees are bedecked with crystals, their forms an icy chandelier that reflects the sky's majesty. This harmony of ice and starlight is shattered by the cracking sound of a frozen lake giving way, a reminder of the danger lurking within beauty's embrace.

Approaching the edges of the Frozen Waste, the sky is a threatening canvas of steel and slate. Whirling snowflakes dance a chaotic ballet, driven by the winds that rule this desolate expanse. Vast ice sculptures, wrought by nature's indifferent hand, stand as silent sentinels to the emptiness. The ghostly howl of the blizzard is all that fills Kabel's ears, the whiteout erasing the world beyond the reach of his outstretched hand.

He finds refuge within an ancient cavern, where the palette of the sky is hidden, replaced by the glow of luminescent fungi that blanket the walls with soft hues of green and amber. The sound of dripping water keeps time like the heart of the mountain, and the air is thick with the earth's perfume—musky and potent. Here and there, small creatures scurry, their eyes reflecting the dim light as they navigate the subterranean realm.

Once beyond the mountain's depths, Kabel happens upon a stretch of land where the ghosts of trees stand petrified, their silhouettes stark against a sky of liquid obsidian. A moon, almost supernaturally large, bathes the landscape in a light so strong it casts the shadow of every stone, every dead branch, in stark relief. The silence is profound here, as if the world holds its breath in the presence of the moon's watchful eye.

[What could he have possibly wanted back at home? He told me he had nothing. Nothing to live for. No family, no friends, no lover, nothing. What would an emotionless assassin like him want?]

Wearied but resolute, Kabel presses onward, his journey drawing him toward the fabled city of Ebonspire, a metropolis built in the shadow of an enormous, looming obelisk that darkens the skies with its brooding presence. The cityscape unfurls beneath a dusk-hued tapestry, the sky a collision of amaranth and charcoal, streaked with the fleeting iridescence of dragon flight. High above, they roar, their scales glinting like scattered jewels against the canvas of eventide. Below, hawkers and peddlers shout over the din of the crowd, their calls a cacophony of life amidst the city's grand, somber architecture.

As Kabel leaves the tumultuous city behind, he finds his path through the verdurous expanse of Elderglen, a sacred forest said to house spirits of nature where each tree is a sentinel with eons etched into its bark. The sky here is dappled in hues of jade and emerald, where sunlight filters through the dense canopy, setting the very air aglow with shimmering motes. Dryads flit between ancient trunks, their laughter a melody that entwines with the chatter of the woodland creatures and the soft whisper of the wind as it tells its secrets to the leaves.

[Existence. Is that it? He's alive now, so that can't be it.]

Before long, Kabel arrives at the Valley of Whispering Titans, home to massive stone golems that have stood guard since time immemorial. The sky above is a canvas of fading sienna, emblazoned with the magnificent trails of shooting stars, coveted by soothsayers for the fortunes they may hold. Villagers gather at the feet of these silent giants to offer gifts, their prayers ascending with the smoke of incense, intertwining with the celestial ballet playing out above.

Crossing the Serpent's Back bridge, an undulating stone construction spanning the treacherous Straits of Ophidion, Kabel navigates his way amongst travellers and traders. The sky here is enveloped in a bewitching shade of sapphire, where clouds form the appearance of gigantic sea creature scales that seemingly slither across the firmament. On the bridge, jugglers and fire-breathers entertain passersby for coin, their flames licking the air, casting a warm, flickering light against the cold, blue sky.

Entering the somber depths of Mourningfield, a realm said to be watched over by the Goddess of Sorrow, Threnodia, Kabel senses the oppressive weight of lost souls. The skies are perpetually ashen, a monochrome expanse from which soft white feathers occasionally drift down—the only sign of the Goddess' silent vigil. Ethereal figures can be seen at the corners of vision, paying homage to the loved ones whose names they whisper into the chill.

[Does he even believe he's alive?]

Beyond the field lies the sun-scorched deserts of Pyraqua. The sky is an unyielding inferno of oranges and reds, a reflection of the scalding sands below. Merchant caravans traverse this inhospitable land, their sails afloat on the dunes, while phantasms of mirage play tricks upon the eyes of all who dare cross. Here, Kabel sees firebirds soar above, their wings aglow, leaving trails of embers that flicker out before ever touching the ground.

Kabel's path eventually intersects with a kaleidoscopic canyon called Prismfall, named for the waterfall that cascades in a mist that captures the essence of rainbows. The sky here is crystalline azure, fractured with light that paints vivid streaks across the stone walls below. Performers donning vibrant, flowing silks dance to the hymns of this place, their bodies moving in tandem with the colors that dance upon the wind.

He enters the Forgotten Hollow, a secluded village cloaked in a perpetual, mystical dusk. The skies resembling amethyst glass, speckled with distant, twinkling pinpricks of starlight. The village is alive with the soft glow of lanterns that sway gently in the evening breeze, illuminating faces etched with tales of yore, villagers who nod politely at the assassin's passage, their gaze returning quickly to their twilight tasks.

[He's never seen places like this before, and yet, he's not mesmerized.]

The trek proceeds into the Paladins' Heath, an open field of honor where the sky alternates in shades of noble blue and regalia purple, echoing the ancient oaths once sworn upon this ground. In the distance, Kabel observes a duo of armored warriors, engaged in a graceful sparring dance, their swords clashing in a song of steel that rises to the vibrant sky.

Ever northward, the midnight sands of the Luminous Dunes stretch out before him. Here, the night sky blooms with an ethereal black, punctuated by sands that emit a natural, soft luminescence evocative of the cosmos above. Travelers gather to witness this spectacle, setting up camps where tales are shared over meals cooked upon open flames, the sky and earth a mirror of one another,engulfed in the wonder of the firmament. Through the dunes, spectral camels carry robed figures, their silhouettes ghosting over the landscape as if navigating the very galaxy.

Upon reaching the edge of the Luminous Dunes, Kabel sets his sights on the imposing citadel of time-lost Aeteranox, perched atop the Crest of Eternals. The sky here seems to breathe with the pulse of history, stars wheeling in slow, profound arcs and nebulas blooming like celestial roses. Guardians of this ancient stronghold patrol the skies on Griffins, their eyes sharp as the gilded tips of their lances, ever-watchful for threats to their timeless charge.

[Do I like this? Do I enjoy him not enjoying every breath? I'm enjoying it. I, Frejai, summoned his soul. To kill all the false gods imposing as mythical creatures and humans in this world of eternity. His journey, like the winding constellations above, is an endless series of departures and returns to places where the very skies tell tales more ancient than the lands over which they rest. Thus is the life of Kabel, whose travels weave him into the very fabric of myth and reality.]

Kabel's wayward path leads him to the forsaken threshold of Velitrae Colosseum, a once-celebrated amphitheater where the thrill of battle and the roar of the crowd had echoed across time like a relentless storm. But now all that remained was an oppressive hush, as if the very land itself mourned the countless lives lost and valor forgotten.

[And now, he steps onto the arena. To face off against the next false god I've spotted. A dark spot in this world, tainting it's nature.]

As Kabel stepped through the once-majestic arches, an air of desolation welcomed him. The massive arena, designed with ingenious engineering and artistic marvels, now lay in ruin. Stones, crumbled and blackened with age, bore the scars of conflict and weather. The skeletons of immense statues that once lined the great halls stared down at him with sightless eyes, their faces a testament to the grandeur that had decayed into nothing but echoes.

The sky loomed ominously above, painted in a dreadful palette of dark reds and blacks, the colors swirling as if recalling the spilled blood and darkness of a gladiatorial spirit. Amidst the chaos of colors, stray objects floated without care: broken shields splintered by blows of ages past, the remnants of banners torn by the relentless winds of time, and blunted swords cast aside by warriors whose names were but whispers on a forlorn breeze.

Once a stage where the free and enslaved sought glory or death, Velitrae Colosseum had enchanted audiences with its brutal ballet. Now, the arena lay silent as a crypt, save for the odd skittering of a beetle or the faint rustle of a dry leaf across the blood-tinged ground, driven by a listless wind. Each grain of sand beneath Kabel's feet was a monument to lives lived loud and ended abruptly beneath the pitiless gaze of frenzied spectators.

The immense stands, sculpted to house a sea of onlookers, now nursed only vacancy and shadow. Yet, amidst this specter of emptiness, Kabel could discern figures—no more than a smattering—draped in black veils that covered them completely. They were utterly motionless, as if carved from the same stone as the desolate edifice itself with only their somber silhouettes giving any indication of presence. These veiled watchers bore witness to the bygone theatre of war, an eternal audience to a performance long since ended.

At the heart of the arena, where combatants had once battled for their lives, lay a grotesque tapestry of decay—bodies left unclaimed, their flesh offered to time and the elements. Perhaps they were the last contenders who had unknowingly fought not just for victory, but also for the privilege to close the grand narrative of the Velitrae. Now, they were but remnants, the final act of a story that had evaporated like morning mist under the relentless march of the sun.

The air was thick with the oppressive scent of dust and a past that clung fiercely to the aged stones. Every step Kabel took was a communion with ancient specters, an intrusion upon a hallowed and haunted ground where the line between glory and the grave had been drawn in sand and blood.

Kabel felt the pull of history, its weight, and its warning. Here, in the shadowed heart of Velitrae, beneath a sky that mourned the fall of mortal ambition, the assassin moved with a reverence reserved for those places where life's fleeting nature is laid bare. The arena, in its macabre beauty, stood as a stark reminder of the impermanence of grandiosity and the certainty that all arenas of glory, in time, succumb to silence.

From the shadows at the far end of Velitrae, a form emerges—a figure so vast and misshapen that for a moment, Kabel wonders if he is witnessing the birth of a new nightmare. The ground itself seems to strain under the creature's grotesque girth as he lumbers into the arena, his mass distorting the air with each ponderous step. The being's skin, or what could be seen of it, is a patchwork of weeping sores and calloused flesh that speaks of arcane rituals and eldritch bindings that have long since warped the boundaries of his once-human form.

His name is whispered only in heretical circles, a moniker that seethes with power and malevolence: Morbus, the Corpulent Blight. Legends tell of his insatiable gluttony, not for sustenance, but for conflict. His eyes are twin voids of voracious darkness, lit only by the hellish crimson glow of his pupils that promise pain and ruination.

A cruel parody of a smile contorts Morbus's lips as he speaks, his voice a guttural rumble that resounds off the crumbling columns of the arena. The sound is oppressive, filled with a hunger that is more than physical. "Like a great serpent devouring its own tail," he begins, his voice tinged with an unsettling glee, "the pursuit of satisfaction is an eternal, self-consuming quest."

Kabel stands, unmoving—his gaze fixed on the being before him, Morbus continues. "You see," the abomination rasps, each word slithering into the air like a toxic mist, "I was once a god among the lesser pantheon, but in a world where the divine commands absolute dominion, where is the challenge? Where is the crescendo of risking everything, the sweet nectar of suspense? I found naught but a tedious existence, so dreadfully devoid of purpose."

He spreads his arms, a twisted benediction delivered to the dead strewn about. "But here, upon these bloodied sands... here, there is the scent of struggle, the delicate aroma of desperation. Do you understand? For each soul that falls, the anticipation amplifies. I yearn for that singular moment—the clash between titans of mortal and divine, the crescendo of a worthy battle."

"As you can see," Morbus gestures with a heavy arm to the desolate arena, "hunters have come with dreams of glory and left but voids in the aether. They were unable, unfit to sate my hunger for a true adversary, for that exquisite edge of uncertainty that dangles before the precipice of both victory and defeat."

In the terse silence that follows, not even the rustling of a veiled spectator's garb can be heard—Velitrae holds its breath. "They believed the tales," he muses, "and thought to ensnare a god. Pitiful wretches! As if mere mortals could ever comprehend the thirst for a kindred soul set upon the battlefield."

Morbus paces, his immense frame making the ground quake subtly with each step. "The gods ruled their realms without question," he sneers. "An iron grip that smothers the thrill of the unknown. It was upon the fields of man that I found it—a flicker of doubt, a glimmering possibility that here, I could truly be tested, could truly feel the pulse of existence in the heart of conflict."

He chuckles, a sound like shifting rubble. "It is in the beautifully chaotic weave of humanity that I seek my delight. Among your kind, there lies the potential for the sublime. You, mortals, who so valiantly face the inevitability of oblivion, who show such resolve in the face of overwhelming odds."

Morbus pauses, his head cocking in a mockery of curiosity. "What say you, assassin?" he asks, addressing Kabel directly. "Do you carry within you that rare spark? Can you provide the exhilaration of a challenge that will sear itself into the very essence of my being? Or will you perish like all the others, a footnote in my relentless search for meaning?"

"Witness the vestiges of those who dared." His sweeping gesture encompasses the entire arena, where deathly stillness and shadow commingle. "They each bore the spark of hope, but hope is a fickle flame easily snuffed out. Their endeavors—noble, brutish, meticulous—all led them here. Nourishment for the ground, a fleeting memory within the infinite."

"You see," Morbus draws closer, looming over Kabel now, "it is not the end of the fight that compels me, but the intoxication of the dance itself. The ebb and flow, the parry and thrust, life hanging by the slenderest of threads."

"You, who skulk through the peripheries of life and death. What do you hold dear, assassin?" heinquires Morbus, his voice a low thrum, resonating like distant thunder. "Do you cling to the shadows out of fear, or is it the joy of the hunt that quickens your pulse?" His form hovers oppressively near, an eclipse of flesh and malice. "Do you seek to best a god, or is it the allure of the fight that beckons you?"

"For once, among the lowly and the great, I find an echo of my own passion. The gods above disdain the struggle—they crave order, predictability... Control. But I," Morbus's voice crescendos into a snarl of fervor, "I revel in the sweet abyss of chaos where true artistry is born!"

He takes a ponderous step back, studying Kabel with what passes for contemplation on his grotesque countenance. "Defeat is inevitable for most," he acknowledges, "but it is the fleeting chance of triumph against the insurmountable that weaves the compelling tapestry of life and death. I seek that which tests even the divine—mortality's crucible where gods may taste fear."

"I renounced the sterile halls of paradise for this—the roar of strife, the silence of the aftermath. Here, I am unbound!" The air around Morbus seems to warp with the intensity of his proclamation. "With every battle, the limits of existence are prodded, and in that exquisite exertion, I discover facets of my being hitherto unchallenged."

"Mark me," Morbus's voice descends to a chilling whisper, the menace within bone-chilling. "I scorn the pretense of a hollow throne. Power, true power, lies in the crucible of war, the anvil upon which gods and mortals alike are reforged."

He gazes upon the veiled spectators, each a silent testament to the eternity he has wrought upon this hallowed ground. "They watch and wait," he says, "for the day when a combatant rises to eclipse my might, to inscribe a new legend in blood and sand. Will you be the one to cast shadow upon my reign?"

Kabel can feel the weight of Morbus's gaze, piercing as it lingers upon him. "Imagine, assassin," the giant continues, his voice seeping with dark invitation, "the tale they would tell—a lone shadow stepping forth to duel with a fallen deity. It's a story to rivet the Heavens themselves."

"There is poetry in battle, an austere beauty that transcends mere flesh. It is a dance of the highest order, and I—Morbus, the Corpulent Blight—am its ardent disciple." His hands clench, a demonstrable yearning to grasp that which eludes his monolithic frame.

"Know this," Morbus raises a finger like an ominous obelisk, "within me beats the heart of a thousand wars, each pulse demanding a foe of worth." The air shivers around him, an intangible aura of anticipation emanating from his form.

He falls silent for a moment, a rare hush as if the world pauses to ponder the gravitas of his declaration. Then, with the gravity of continents colliding, he speaks again. "It is not the hunt, nor the kill, but the extraordinary ecstasy of a challenge sincerely met—a conflagration of wills, where for a timeless instant, we are more than flesh; we are the exultation of life itself."

"So tell me, shadow-walker," Morbus concludes, a deep rumble of a chuckle escaping him, "will you step into the light? Will you ascend the stage and grapple with fate itself? Or will you retreat into the safe embrace of the darkness from whence you came?"

With that, Morbus, the carrier of divine discontent, the behemoth that has forsaken eternity for the brutal sonnet of combat, waits—a juggernaut of expectation—for Kabel's answer, standing amidst the stillness of Velitrae and the silent witnesses that dwell within shadows and silence.

The atmosphere in Velitrae is saturated with the tension of Morbus's challenge; the silence is oppressive, a prelude to the violence that seems inevitable. Then, without warning, a flicker of light cleaves the air—a stark, cutting crimson that seems to tear the very fabric of reality itself.

As if born from the shadow of Morbus's own overbearing presence, a figure steps forward, a vision of military precision and lethal grace. His armor is a masterwork of warfare aesthetics, dark as the void, trimmed with accents that reflect the blood-hues of a setting sun. It clings to his form like a second exoskeleton, accentuating a physique honed by countless battles. In stark contrast to Morbus's vile form, this newcomer embodies the virility and might of a seasoned warrior.

He is known as Siris, the Sunderer of Horizons, and in his hand, he wields a blade that hums with a foreboding scarlet light, a broadsword so immense and menacing that it seems to draw in the lingering fear in the air and radiate it back as sheer intimidation. Siris's entrance is a spectacle of lethal prowess—the blade arcs through the air with a precision and speed that defies its size.

In a swift, decisive motion that seems to mock the very concept of time, Siris cleaves Morbus in twain. The Corpulent Blight's expression, carved into grotesque shock, monopolizes the split second before his form begins its grim descent towards the sands of the arena. It is a brutal testament to Siris's might—that even a being of Morbus's stature was not beyond the reach of his blade's wrath.

As Morbus's two halves thud heavily onto the ground, Siris turns, his gaze piercing the distance between him and Kabel. He speaks with a voice that is clear and resonant, every word carrying the weight of a thousand battles and the wisdom of one who has seen through the veils of worlds. "From the same realm as the fallen deity before you I hail," his tone carries the echo of ancient conflict, "and like him, I have traversed the void in search of a true challenge."

Siris plants his glowing red sword into the ground, where it stands quivering, as if eager for more carnage. "Morbus sought chaos in his battles, believing that satisfaction could be found in the uncertainty of conflict," he says with a hint of derision. "I, however, discard such fanciful notions; my ideology is more pragmatic, rooted in the reality of steel and skill."

The spectators of Velitrae, hidden in their veils and shadows, watch with rapt attention as the scene unfolds, knowing that they are witnessing a rare narrative shift—a tale being rewritten in blood and blade. Siris exudes an aura of controlled ferocity, a counterpoint to Morbus's unbridled hunger for strife.

"Kabel," Siris addresses the silent figure directly, his challenge as piercing as the gaze that accompanies it, "I have no interest in the blind gathering of corpses that the Blight has made his pastime. I seek a fight that sharpens the mind as much as it does the sword—a battle worthy of legend."

The glint of anticipation shines in Siris's eyes, a reflection of the same yearning for battle that Morbus had voiced, yet tempered with a clear sense of direction and purpose. His stance is one of readiness, and even though his sword remains embedded in the ground before him, there is no doubt he is a force to be reckoned with.

"The true challenge," he declares, "lies in facing an adversary who can match your wit, your strength, and your will. A fight where each move is a note in the symphony of war—a dance of death where the slightest misstep could be your last."

Siris reaches out and, with an effortless tug, frees his glowing red sword from the earth. The blade sings a sinister note, a promise of devastation in capable hands. He walks towards Kabel, each step deliberate, a predator's approach that leaves no room for doubt about his intent or his prowess.

"Now," Siris says, his armor catching the dim light as he raises his sword, positioning it in a salute that acknowledges Kabel's prowess and also his next target, "let us see if you are the challenge I've been seeking, if you have the steel to stand against me in a battle that will be remembered through the ages. Face me, Kabel, and let our combat forge a legend worthy of the annals of Velitrae."

The air is thick with the scent of an impending storm, the aftermath of Morbus's downfall already fading into history as Siris, the Sunderer of Horizons, stands poised on the edge of a new and glorious conflict, ready to test his blade, his mettle, and his very ideology against the enigmatic might of Kabel.

Kabel said, "..You know me..how?"

Siris replied, "Battle me!"

[Kill the false god: Siris]

Kabel's eyes turned pure white, shadows lingered from his body, and his red dagger covered in shadows was pulled out, and in the blink of an eye, he dashed towards Siris, and Siris grinned, "HAHA! Thatsssss it!"