The shadow was blasted backward by Grey's punch, even though it had already been skidding across the uneven ground. Dust, sand, and shattered stones erupted in every direction, scattering like startled birds. As the debris slowly settled, the figure of a young, frail boy emerged, his purple hair drifting behind him as if caught in an invisible current. The faint glow of violet seemed to cling to him, tinting his darkened clothes with a subtle, ethereal hue. His eyes were calm, like a crystal-clear lake at dawn, but within them lurked a resolute determination that betrayed the fragility of his form.
Grey's hands remained buried deep in his pockets. His face was an impassive mask, unreadable and cold, yet the slight clench of his jaw hinted at the thoughts simmering beneath the surface—a quiet, controlled intensity that demanded attention.
