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The Blind Swordsman.

A tragedy... An abrupt departure... Death... And rebirth. Pain, rage, struggle, and blood honed a sword. A sword sharp enough to sever through reality and reveal what lies beyond. It unveiled something, Or rather, someone, incomprehensible and unprecedented.... A being who seems to weave the threads of fate. Does he truly exist, or is he merely a manifestation of another's will? If he does exist, what purpose does he serve? Is there really a purpose, or is it just another will imposed upon him? If it is another's will, can he defy it? Can he turn his sword against his creator, A being who literally writes his reality? Or will he be consumed by the abyss from which his power flows, Forever lost in the shifting void of his own making?

_Eshwar_ · Realista
Classificações insuficientes
283 Chs

Calamity in the brewing

A few kilometres wide clearance hosted the event with arenas numbering in tens, for matches hosted at once were in a little over fifty at once; the gathered crowd inhabited more from the east, who were easily noticeable with their robed outfits. Following the trend, most of the crowd too purchased and donned robes from the nearby settlements with a few souvenirs unseen in their natives.

Of course, the natives of the east were obviously noticeable with their rather heavy seeming robes that hid their individual figures; they were taller in comparison, for 6 feet was the average height of those from the east, with their comparatively taller height, their robes heightened their charm, while those who merely donned robes to follow the trend looked like clowns; of course, not everyone looked like a clown, but majority indeed did, making a few prideful Eastern(s) feel they were disrespecting their cultures, customs, and traditions.