After ten years — the year 540 After the Coronation —
Robin sat in front of the same ancient cave as he always did, legs crossed and shoulders hunched, a massive, half-finished canvas looming silently before him. The soft light from the soul crystals embedded in the cavern walls bathed him in a dim, golden glow, yet it did nothing to ease the storm swirling behind his eyes.
He absentmindedly scratched his head with the end of his quill, while his other hand idly picked at the rough edges of his toenails — a habit that betrayed his irritation more than he cared to admit. His face was tight with thought, his expression a blend of frustration, exhaustion, and stubborn determination.
"Still no progress? Tsk, tsk~ how truly disappointing…"
Arkalon's teasing voice echoed lazily from the side, laced with that familiar tone of mockery that a soul creature should not have.
