The sun had begun its descent behind the jagged cliffs of the Eastern Wastes, casting the sky in hues of crimson and ash. Thalen stood alone on a broken ridge, the remnants of the training field behind him now scorched and torn. His breathing was heavy, shallow. His clothes were drenched in sweat, and the once-pristine blade he wielded trembled in his grasp.
"Again," came the voice.
A cold gust of wind blew down the cliffside, carrying with it the gravelly command of Seraine, one of the nine SSS Heroes. Cloaked in a storm-grey mantle, she approached with the deliberate calm of a veteran. Her eyes were pools of still water reflecting everything, revealing nothing.
"You haven't yet bled enough for it," she said, drawing a sharp arc through the air with her own blade, a Legendary-class weapon known as Whisperveil. It shimmered faintly with the Tyrant's Spirit, hungry.
