A man broke out of the trees and landed silently among the corpses.
I looked at him.
His hair was stark white, a full beard hanging down to his chest. His skin was pale, his frame lean, even wiry—but he moved with the grace of someone younger.
He wore baggy black clothing that flowed with each subtle motion. Despite his age, he looked unshaken by the carnage.
He examined the bodies scattered around him, then slowly raised his head and met my gaze.
A smile crept across his face.
"Well, well. Isn't this the great Billion Ironhart. I smelled blood, but I never thought I'd find you."
"Thanks for the compliment, old man," I replied flatly.
His brow twitched at the last words.
He raised his hands and summoned his weapon.
Twin sabers materialized—one in each hand—sleek and dark, the edges whispering with Essence.
He rubbed the blades together, metal hissing as he said, "I'm not an old man. This is a rare condition. Accelerated pigment loss. Makes me appear older than I am."
