Silence.
It was heavy and suffocating, pressing down until even the howl of the wind and the crackle of lightning seemed to vanish. Marquis Vistro hovered in the air, his silver blade trembling in a hand that had never once known hesitation. His mind, sharpened by decades of cultivation and political schemes, struggled to process what he was seeing, fragments of disbelief crashing together without forming a single clear thought.
He couldn't take his eyes off the person in front of him. The outfit, the eyes, and the clear familiar features meant it could only be one person: his third son. It didn't make any sense.
