A genuine smile softened his features as he reminisced about the days when he was just a part of his clan, before the demands of power and survival had transformed him. Back then, his magic was simpler, his constitution less fortified by the dark contracts and fusions that now defined his being. He remembered the laughter and the shouts of his clan members echoing through the icy valleys of Iceberg, their faces alight with the thrill of the hunt and the warmth of kinship.
Lying there, Naryuu's eyes flicked to the gray skies above, a quiet peace settling over him. The memories of those days were like the snow—beautiful but fleeting. Yet, in this brief moment of respite, he felt the weight of his current burdens lift slightly, replaced by the cold touch of snow and a whisper of nostalgia for a time when he was just another member of his clan, not the driven, battle-hardened sorcerer he had become.
Jumping to his feet, Naryuu’s mood shifted instantly from reflective calm to intense focus. He drew his double-bladed sword, its dark sheen catching the dim light that filtered through the heavy clouds above. The sword became an extension of his being as he began a swift, lethal dance, his movements precise and deadly.
In his mind, imaginary foes sprung up around him, each one met with a brutal, decisive slash. His blade sliced through the air with no hesitation, each motion a display of his deadly skill and unwavering resolve. The snow around him churned under the force of his movements, kicked up by the rapid steps and turns of his dance.
As he moved, the space around him transformed; what was once a field of soft, untouched snow became a flattened, smooth arena, marked by the arcs of his relentless practice. His breathing grew heavy, visible in puffs of white that rhythmically burst forth, mixing with the icy air.
Naryuu's face was set, his eyes focused, betraying no emotion other than a fierce determination. Each imagined opponent fell before his blade, proving his readiness and skill, honed by years of training and battle. The flurry of his movements slowed eventually, coming to a stop as he stood amidst the now-patted down snow, his chest heaving, and his sword gleaming coldly in his steady grip.
WC:454