Mr. Fisher stood at the center of the marble-floored hall, flanked by twin streams of projected light that arched out from behind him like mirrored rivers suspended midair. One pulsed a deep, volatile red—alive with flickers and sparks, like restrained violence waiting to burst. The other glowed a calm, crystalline blue—fluid, measured, and intricate.
"Fighter, or Alchemist."
His voice echoed across the high-ceilinged chamber. Though there was no microphone clipped to his coat, the acoustics carried his words with clarity and resonance. There was gravity in his tone—steady, deliberate—like someone who had made this speech a hundred times and still found meaning in every syllable.
"Two roads. Two legacies," he said, pacing slowly between the streams of light. "One carves through flesh. The other through logic. One is blunt force, the other—precise reaction. Both will kill you if you're stupid."
