Max sat cross-legged in silence, his eyes closed, the broken sword lying before him like a dormant beast. The training chamber was dim, only faint light from the ceiling rune stones reflecting off the jagged edge of the sword's shattered blade.
Max calmed his breathing, entering a deep meditative state, his soul energy gently wrapping around the broken weapon. Slowly, like a whisper reaching across a void, his sword concept resonated with whatever will lingered within the blade.
He felt a pulse—not violent like before—but ancient, steady, and incomparably proud. The sword hummed softly, and in that moment, visions bloomed in Max's mind.
He saw a lone swordsman standing amidst a mountain of corpses, his figure straight, his sword pointing toward the heavens, unbending. Countless enemies fell before him, none able to break through his stance, his blade, or even his will.
