Ethan sat alone in the center of the cavernous training hall. The skylight above poured a solemn silver glow across his white training garments. His breathing was slow, measured, yet each exhale carried the hushed power of someone far beyond ordinary limits.
His mind was occupied by a singular thought—he was growing too strong. It was a blessing that had become almost burdensome. With a single stroke of his sword, he could cleave through mountains and annihilate opponents in the same cultivation realm or even higher realms like slaughtering dogs and chickens. A flick of his blade would end conflicts before they even began.
And yet, in that instantaneous finality, there was no artistry. No struggle. No true expression of the warrior's path he revered.
He was not merely a killer. He was a man who loved combat itself—the flowing of blood, the surge of adrenaline, the poetry of a contest fought on equal footing. More importantly showing off. This was the main theme.
