The grand one was seated on the balcony, watching as fencers killed each other below. The war raged on, but nobody dared attack the grand one. As he turned to leave, a battler appeared, bowing before him.
"News," the grand one spoke.
"Yes, sir. They've killed one of the knights. Killing Mark in the Sword Domain has proven to be difficult."
"Can't a level three knight enter the domain?" the grand one asked. "Doubtful. The Sword Domain is held together by a couple of level four knights. They are strong, but if a level three knight enters, the domain will collapse and make the planet a sword hell." The battler explained. "What about Sasha? Did she enter the domain?" The grand one asked. "Yes, but she won't have help. Only four of the knights remain, and the rest of our fencers were killed by someone who called himself Aknaili, some call him the black clad, some Shadow Arc." "Okay, keep me informed." After saying that, the grand one left the balcony, leaving the battler, who disappeared soon after.
The war of fencers had left Portland in a state of utter devastation. The once thriving country was now a battleground, scarred by the relentless fighting. The skies were perpetually shrouded in a thick, grey haze, and the air was heavy with the acrid smell of smoke and ash. The country wasn't completely destroyed because because knights didn't participate in the war only fencers and they did this much damage.
Cities lay in ruins, some of the buildings reduced to rubble and ash. The streets were littered with the bodies of the fallen, their armor battered and broken. The few remaining structures stood as skeletal sentinels, a grim reminder of the devastation that had occurred.
The land itself was scarred, the earth torn apart by the fierce battles. Rivers ran red with the blood of the fallen, and the very ground seemed to tremble with the force of the fighting. The few remaining trees stood bare and lifeless, their branches like bony fingers reaching towards the sky.
The stories of the fallen clans were etched into the very fabric of the land, clans which were cought up in the battle. The proud and powerful Clan of the Golden Sword, once masters of the battlefield, now lay defeated and broken. Their stronghold, once a symbol of their strength, was now a ruin, its walls cracked and crumbling. The once majestic halls, where the clan's leaders had planned their campaigns, were now dark and silent, their walls bearing the scars of the final battle.
The Clan of the Red Katana, feared and respected by all, had been decimated in a single battle. Their leader, the legendary fencer, Kaito, had fallen in combat, his katana shattered and his armor broken. The clan's stronghold, once a fortress of steel and stone, was now a smoldering ruin, its walls blackened and charred. The once-vibrant training grounds, where the clan's warriors had honed their skills, were now a desolate expanse of ash and dust.
The Clan of the Silver Blade, once the most skilled and deadly of all, had been wiped out in a surprise attack. Their stronghold, once a fortress of steel and stone, was now a smoldering ruin, its walls blackened and charred. The once majestic throne room, where the clan's leaders had ruled with wisdom and justice, was now a dark and silent tomb, its walls bearing the scars of the final battle.
The war of fencers had left Portland a desolate and barren land, a testament to the destructive power of conflict. The stories of the fallen clans would be remembered for generations to come, a reminder of the devastating cost of war. The land itself seemed to mourn the loss of its people, its silence a stark contrast to the once-vibrant sounds of laughter and combat.
The few remaining structures stood as a grim reminder of the devastation that had occurred. The once-majestic castles, where the clans' leaders had ruled with wisdom and justice, were now dark and silent tombs, their walls bearing the scars of the final battle. The once-vibrant training grounds, where the clans' warriors had honed their skills, were now desolate expanses of ash and dust.
The war of fencers had left Portland a land of shadows, a place where the ghosts of the fallen clans wandered, their armor broken and their weapons shattered. The land itself seemed to be a grave, a final resting place for the warriors who had fought and died for their clans. The stories of the fallen clans would be remembered for generations to come, a reminder of the devastating cost of war.
[ Sword grounds ]
Mark's sword sliced through the air with a piercing whoosh, the sound waves rippling outwards like a shockwave. His training had reached a fever pitch, his movements a blur of intensity as he danced across the ground. Sweat dripped from his brow like rain, his muscles burning with a fiery intensity.
With each strike, the air seemed to shudder, the sword's blade flashing like a shard of light.
Mark's eyes blazed with focus as he executed each technique with precision and power. The sword became an extension of his body, a deadly instrument wielded with grace and deadly intent
'I'm not going to be left behind,' Mark thought to himself:
'I didn't dn break a promise just to be left behind.' With renewed determination, he continued his slashing patterns, his sword slicing through the air with increased ferocity. As he gained speed, the slashes began to leave a faint glow, and he could see afterimages of his sword's trajectory.
"I'm not going to stop!" Mark exclaimed, pushing himself even faster. His sword became a blur, and he could feel his energy building up.
"Now, energy!" he directed some of his energy into his sword, and a wave of slashes mixed with a vibrant, pulsing energy appeared, destroying all the trees around him.
Mark breathed heavily, scanned the destruction.
"I'll create my own sword skill," he declared, his eyes burnt with determination. "Remon and Zico won't best me with their Armorments!" he continued his slashes, his sword flashing in the light as he continued to try and forge his own unique technique.