Beneath the moon, its pale light streaked with twilight hues.
Atticus stood in the open field, sword in hand, surrounded by the lush expanse of the forest.
The night exuded a quiet serenity, disrupted only by nature's subtle symphony: the soft rustle of leaves, the distant, rhythmic calls of unseen creatures, and the caress of the breeze as it danced across the grass.
This location, situated far behind Aerith Castle.
What should I do, embrace nature, twilight streaks, and primal essence?
Draped in black flowing robes accented with crimson linings, chosen deliberately for this occasion.
He began to move, slowly at first, each step marked a transition into a seamless dance with his sword.
Piercing strikes melded into graceful arcs, extending into fluid circles as the twilight streaks illuminated his slashes.
Drawing upon fragments of theological dances he had observed in his past life, he imbued each step with meaning, creating something uniquely his own, his gaze lifted toward the Moon, he continued the rhythm.
He ended with a signature pose as though the dance had reached its conclusion.
Well, nothing had changed, except that he was now exhausted.
The only thing missing from the spectacle was an application to join a circus; his ears burned crimson as he glanced around in every direction, hoping no one had been watching.
Now what? Oh, right, primal essence.
He had convinced himself that using primal essence wasn't necessary for this, but he was wrong.
Atticus took a deep breath.
This time, he channeled his primal essence, shrouding both himself and the sword he held.
Unlike before, he no longer relied on the knowledge of his past life.
He allowed himself to move instinctively, letting the moment guide him.
Propelling himself into the air, driven now by raw emotion and purpose, the desire to grow stronger, his enhanced vision caught sight of something.
It materialized before him: a shadowy figure, a translucent, low-opacity sword, ethereal yet distinct.
Following its movements, he mirrored the guide with his own blade, refining each strike with precision.
Nearby fireflies drifted closer to him, seemed to dance beside him, their light weaving into his movements, the surroundings grew sharper, more vivid, as though the world itself pulsated in rhythm with his swordplay.
Faster and faster he moved, the rhythm building to its crescendo until, at last, it came to a purposeful conclusion.
As he stilled, the surrounding area dimmed, returning to its usual state of quietude.
This isn't it. Thoroughly lacking.
It felt profoundly inadequate, more like a fleeting preview or the mere fragment of a much grander narrative.
He had only tapped into a fraction of it, a few scant percent of its true magnitude.
It felt as though the movements and the blade itself were guiding him, an ephemeral glimpse into the very essence of their ritualistic swordsmanship: the convergence of art, nature, self, and the act of killing.
Atticus felt something stir within him as he concentrated; the primal essence, as if it were conversing with him.
It seemed to rebuke him for losing himself in the rhythm of ritual, chastising him for ignoring what it had spoken of earlier.
Alright, alright. My bad. My bad.
He exhaled deeply, closing his eyes and surrendering all lingering thoughts.
Remain of stillness.
Attuning himself to the primal essence, as if it were speaking to him, whispering cryptic guidance.
Follow the wind back to the past. Listen to the noise of the indescribable.
The wind stirred, and he followed, not with his body, but with his mind.
It carried him into a void of blank nothingness, a space both empty and endless.
Then, faintly, he heard it, a small noise, distant yet growing louder.
It swelled into an almost deafening rhythm, like fragments of foreign languages folding over each other, incomprehensible.
His eyes snapped open.
What the actual fuck?
Tall figures, their robust bodies marked with uncanny stigmata, stood shrouded in huge bone masks and clad in loincloths.
They gathered in an open field, where a towering bonfire roared at the center.
Surrounding them, trees rose like giants, their heights rivaling mountains, while an imposing moon loomed unnaturally close, its light casting the scene in an otherworldly glow.
The surroundings shimmered with colors, vivid and surreal, as though ancient petroglyphs had come alive to dance under the night sky.
Atticus felt like he was caught in a lucid dream.
The looming Chief, an imposing figure with a terrifying presence, stood close to him, silent and deliberate, the Chief nodded and extended a sword.
Atticus, as if compelled, reached out and slowly accepted it.
Around the blazing bonfire, the people began to form a circle, their voices rising in indescribable chants.
A cacophony of instruments erupted, filling the night with a primal rhythm as they danced with their swords.
Their movements possessed a grace and precision far surpassing the one who had taught him earlier, each step vibrant and seamless, weaving together in a harmony that electrified the air.
The audience beyond the fire was indistinct, a hazy blur in his peripherals, their forms almost unreal.
Without thinking, Atticus joined the circle, moving as if guided by instinct.
The dance flowed effortlessly, each motion sharper and more precise, as though his body had awakened to a higher understanding beyond rational thought.
Just as he began to grasp the moment, a wave of darkness overcame him, and he blacked out.
***
Atticus opened his eyes, his vision unsteady as everything around him trembled.
He felt the soft grass beneath his back, a fleeting anchor to reality.
Realizing he was lying down, he struggled to sit upright, but his body refused to cooperate, he immediately slumped back down.
What's happening?
The shaking disoriented him further, leaving him lightheaded and helpless.
Through his blurred vision, he saw a figure standing over him.
Priestess Umbra?
He couldn't tell if he had spoken the words aloud or merely thought them.
Umbra, hailed from the Primogenial Clan, a force to be reckoned with, a fighter who could hold her own against even Protagonist Asher and Hero Venera under the cover of night.
Her skin was dark, with a tone reminiscent of a black jaguar. Her raven hair, cropped into a sharp pixie cut, framed her sharp golden eyes, large golden hoop earrings adorned her ears, accentuating her slim, feline-like features.
What a truly stunning person. I want to lick every inch of her body.
Umbra tilted her head slightly, while Atticus froze, suddenly unsure of himself.
Wait… what the fuck? What am I thinking?
The thought rattled him violently.
He couldn't tell whether he had spoken aloud or if it was all in his head.
The disorientation only worsened, as though he were caught in the eye of a storm, spinning and untethered.
Is this the effect of that ritualistic sword dance?
The possibility lingered, as that ancient hag's answers were always somewhat vague.
Still, how breathtaking., the way her golden eyes gleamed against the backdrop of the night sky… it was mesmerizing.
Unable to look away, Atticus felt himself consumed by the moment, the trembling world closing in around him, his vision swam, and the boundaries of reality collapsed into the void as everything faded to black once more.