There was no need for any other formalities—the bond between the two brothers made them unnecessary.
They simply sat across from each other, and like water breaking through a dam, words began to flow.
Devrok spoke first, his voice carrying the steady rhythm of someone who had walked a long and arduous path. He spoke with passion, the kind that could only be forged through hardship and obsession. His eyes lit up as he recounted the nuances of his cultivation—the intricate dance between mind and blade, the moment the sword no longer felt like a weapon but an extension of his will.
Damien listened in silence, a small, genuine smile tugging at his lips.
He had never been drawn to the sword. His path diverged in a completely different direction. And yet, as he listened to Devrok's vivid descriptions—each word laced with the emotions of his journey—he felt a faint stirring within.
A quiet urge. A flicker of curiosity.
Perhaps… it wouldn't be so bad to try the sword one day.
