All around him, the countless swords buzzed quietly, their invisible sword intents brushing against his skin like whispers from the dead. The first sword he approached was simple, its blade chipped and weathered.
Yet the moment he got close, a wave of sword intent crashed into him—a feeling of overwhelming defense and protection, like an unbreakable shield. Max frowned and shook his head. 'I don't want a sword that protects,' he thought coldly. 'I want a sword that kills.'
He moved on, wandering deeper. Another sword drew him close, its blade slim and curved like a crescent moon. As he neared, a sensation of elegance, of light dancing movements filled his senses—this was a sword meant for swift duels, precise strikes, beautiful exchanges of technique.
Max's eyes narrowed in disinterest. 'Too soft,' he thought. 'I don't need elegance. I need destruction.'
