The winds embraced him and hushed.
As the last thread of battle unraveled, the lone figure stood amidst the fading echoes of conflict, his breath steady, his presence unwavering. The air still carried the lingering hum of power—the resonance of the threads that had woven his victory. Yet, he did not linger.
Silver threads, unseen to ordinary eyes, coiled around his feet, lifting him gently from the ground. The land itself seemed to yield to his presence, bending to the will of his passage. With a single step, he became the wind—weightless, swift, untouchable.
The threads carried him across the forsaken expanse of Durandaya, weaving through the hollowed ruins and barren wastelands. He moved like a phantom, his form flickering in and out of sight, leaving only a whisper of movement in his wake.
