Weeks under the tutelage of Warlord Raelith had honed Spectre's understanding of the katana to an edge sharper than steel.
Each passing day revealed more of the man's genius, a talent forged not by privilege, nor by supernatural aid, but by the sheer force of innate talent.
And yet, as much as Spectre admired him, there was a quiet truth buried in the depths of his mind: his own talent eclipsed even that of his tutor.
He was not yet Raelith's equal, not as Anthony had been, but every lesson, every subtle nuance, every imperceptible movement Raelith imparted had taken root in him, absorbed with an ease that bordered on the unnatural.
Twice was more than enough for him to master what others would toil over for years.
Now, it was time to unveil the harvest of that training.
Lightning cracked in the air, the scent of ozone thickening around him as his presence swelled. He stood poised, an incarnation of storm and wrath, a god draped in thunder.
