'Three years ago, he fought like a wildfire,' Harlan thought, eyes narrowing slightly. 'As if nothing to lose, and as if only to fight.'
Back then, every swing Lucavion made carried a kind of beautiful recklessness—raw, untamed, dangerous in its refusal to care about the consequences. He had bled just to feel alive. Had smiled at the taste of pain because it meant he hadn't disappeared yet. He swung not for victory, not even for survival.
He swung to burn.
But now…
Now the fire was different.
Harlan looked again—not at the movements, but at the stillness.
At the blade Lucavion hadn't drawn.
At the way he controlled each step like a man who knew exactly where he was going—not just in the spar, but in the world.
'That sword of his… it has a direction now.'
The realization struck deep.
'It's not just being swung anymore. It's pointed at something. At someone.'
Harlan didn't know what that was.
Didn't ask.
