Transcendent Odyssey [Coffeepen]

PREVIOUSLY-

He stepped back, breathing hard, sweat dripping down his jaw. His buckler was scuffed and cracked. The short sword was nearly toothless. But he’d won.

Not with power.

But with experience.

And adaptation.

He turned toward the arena’s far wall, voice ragged.

"...Someone better give me a damn scabbard for this shield at this point."

---x---

Leon turned to the squire.

The orc stood still, head slightly bowed, unmoving in defeat.

Leon raised the dulled, chipped short sword—not with anger, nor cruelty, but with the same efficiency a butcher raises a cleaver. His expression was calm. Detached. The Bloodgnaw Rhythm still pulsed faintly in his limbs, dulling the weight of emotion.