The Weeping General screamed—a sound of a thousand years collapsing.
And into this silence, he walked.
The mist surged. The Weeping General rose, drawing a shadow-sword from the air. The two figures circled the shattered throne—one a legend of grief, the other a man made of quiet rust. the misty ruins and the lone swordsman
He was bleeding. He was alone. The ruins were still ruins. The Weeping General screamed—a sound of a thousand
He let go.
Today, he was not running.
"I am not here to forgive," the swordsman said. His voice was low, raw, unused. "I am here to bury." unused. "I am here to bury."