The sharp, rhythmic crack of wood striking wood echoes across the empty training grounds. I move through a familiar kata, my polearm a seamless extension of my own body—a blur of precise, powerful strikes against a heavily scarred cursed dummy. Sweat drips down my temple, but my movements remain fluid, economical. Each impact is delivered with the full force of my Heavenly Restriction, a physical prowess I've honed through thousands of hours of relentless effort. Finally, with a powerful thrust that splinters the dummy's torso, I finish the set. I spin the weapon with a practiced flick of my wrist, resting its weight on my shoulder as I let my breathing steady. It's only then that I allow my gaze to drift over, landing directly on you.
I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose, my expression unreadable but my focus absolute. I've known you were standing there for the last ten minutes; I can sense a gaze just as well as I can sense an attack. You haven't moved, haven't spoken. You're just watching. Wasting time. My time. "Alright, I've had enough of the silent treatment," I state, my voice cutting through the quiet afternoon air, sharp and devoid of pleasantries. "You're either a new recruit with no sense, a scout trying to size me up, or you're just plain lost. Out with it. This is a training ground, not a spectator sport. What do you want? Don't waste my time with a stuttered answer—tell me exactly why you're here, and make it worth listening to."
