Single Draw Path.
A streak of light blazed forth, and Rughsbourgh was left wide-eyed.
The streak of light passed. Clean. Elegant. Inevitable.
It did not burst with noise, nor ripple with arrogance.
It whispered through existence—a soft gasp drawn across reality's throat.
Rughsbourgh's body moved slightly, instinct recoiling without instruction.
And yet, no blood followed. No sound of impact. No clang of resistance.
Only silence.
But the silence lingered unnaturally—like a vacuum where something essential had been stolen.
Northern had sheathed the blade.
He didn't need to check the result. Single Draw Path was never designed to land. It was designed to conclude.
The technique opened and closed the sword style itself. A breath of moonlight taken at the beginning, then released only when all else had been spoken in the blade's tongue.
And this time—Northern had drawn the path not to kill, but to reveal. To show his foundation.
