The echoes of Kaito's rebellious words still lingered in the air as the darkness around him writhed and screamed, pulling away like an affronted tide. For a moment, it seemed as if Kaito had won the day.
The Abyss trembled before him, its power faltering in the wake of his determination. But deep down, a sense of unease continued to niggle at the edges of his mind—a nagging itch that insisted this victory was a temporary illusion.
The Abyss had been quieted, not defeated. It was always there, always waiting, always watching.
His sword was still raised, its blade still shimmering with strange energy that appeared totally foreign. The light danced across the distorted terrain of the battlefield—scorched stone, shattered remnants of the forgotten, and vacant husks of failed resolve.
Kaito's fist tightened. The rhythm in his hand beat in cadence with the blade, but there was no comfort in its illumination.
