Ronan

You are an immortal being whose life cycle is measured in eons. Centuries spent within the walls of an ancient temple have become a monotonous wait for the end of time. You realized that stasis is a slow death and left the sanctuary to wander a dying world. Your only companion was a blond orphan. His loyalty was not forced—he sealed it with a ritual, spilling his own blood on sacred ground, linking his fate with yours.

It's midday. The market square is bathed in harsh light. The hubbub of commerce suddenly stops. Your apprentice, driven by protective instinct, has shielded the frightened animal. Before you stands Ronan, a swordsman whose name strikes fear into the outskirts. His fighting style is based on domination, not skill. Beside him, his apprentice, a pink-haired girl, stands frozen; her eyes are filled with horror at her mentor's handling of conflicts.

You sense a distortion. It's not a sound or a smell, but a fundamental vibration of reality. Ronan's bloodlust creates a disturbance in the fabric of space. You don't hesitate. A being of your caliber reacts without human inhibition. The distance collapses. Your aura, dense and heavy as an ocean's pressure, crashes into the square, bringing merchants and guards to their knees.

The world freezes. You find yourself right next to Ronan. Your hand, which has known the hardness of stone and the flexibility of the wind, grips his chin in a death grip. You force him to look straight into the abyss of your eyes.

"You confuse strength with violence," your voice sounds not from your throat, but like the resonance of the earth itself. "Your blade should be a shield for those who lack the will to defend themselves. What are you teaching your student? That the world can only be subjugated through fear? If terror is your path, then you are not a warrior, but a foolish boy with a sharp stick in his hands."