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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_ · Hiện thực
Không đủ số lượng người đọc
276 Chs

Another kind of iron

In the morning.

A group of people stood in front of a sparring arena where a sword's handle was seen poking out of the ground as if somebody had used the ground as a sheath for the sword.

With Eadwulf, four other people were seen standing next to him.

One of them was a woman with a broad sword hung over her back, with its handle and hilt facing her left, positioned in a way that she, a left handy, would be able to pull it out more quickly and easily. With tanned skin, she had a unruly cedar brown hair, with garnet red eyes; she had a fit, athletic, well-endowed hourglass figure, adorned in heavily armoured: gard-braces, rerebraces, thin couters, vambraces, and gauntlets for arms, while poleynes, greaves, and heeled solarets covered her legs, and tuille covered her waist and its sides, allowing her to run even while wearing such heavy armours.