Enter: Sparda

[23:23] The blade is dug into the wooden floorboards, leaning up its bulk. His eyes remain to the ground, one arm thrown over ontop of his knee. This could not have been his potential, the apex from which his growth has transcended. There still had to be more room for him to grow. "Mmm... This... This is not good." His training has been severely slacking.

First Id, then Audree, Khaine and Sophia. Everyone was progressing forward to newer heights, newer strategies that the old fashion way simply cannot accomplish. Id had speed, Audree her defenses. Khaine his chilling ice. Sophia her holy radiance. But this fight with Cristovan was precisely what he needed to fully understand what he lacked.

"I see now... I see what I am doing wrong."

He wasn't adapting to greater heights, utilizing his acumen as a soldier and applying it into a new fighting style. The broad blade is sheathed, grabbing a hold of Cristovan's forearm before he pats him on the back with the other.

"No, I have. I am no fool to believe I am still performing at my best. This paltry display has shown me what I need to do." And that was to devise a new style of his own, one that would certainly accentuate his prowess as a fierce offensive fighter.

"Thank you, Cristovan."

He spoke up, a faint smile on his face as he heads out. It was time for Nemein to focus on his own growth, before he became a relic of a bygone era.
(Nemein Sparda)
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[23:25] Cristóvan turns, allowing Nemein to pass. While he had some words, he'd keep them to his own self. It was better to see with results, wasn't it? Instead he offers a nod to the back of the Sparda.
(Cristóvan)

[00:28] It was time to study the blade.

For too long, has Nemein gone idle, the Syndicate and those within the knight order have progressed immensely in just two years. Although Nemein had finally grasped the full potential of plasma, he had neglected the study of swordsmanship. His mind's eye can already envision his father's chastising expression, to see that he had gained Exarch only to slouch behind the myriad of knights.

It would simply not do, to have all his hard work upstaged by those with strategies that outshined his skill. The mantle of plasma drapes his back, the blade held close this face as it aligns with the guard. He needed to focus on his offensive, to showcase the speed in which he's gradually acquiring from his bouts with Id and the like. Everyone was making progress, why must he fall behind? Why must Nemein, now Exarch, pale in strength to those he calls comrades? Atrosus made himself clear in the meeting: A knight should be able to hold his own.

A desire to win, a tremendous surge of guilt over his ineptitude to maintain his focus was gradually wearing him down. Nemein could not outmatch several contenders below his station, a travesty he needed to correct, before time came when the Syndicate strikes again. The sword is set ablaze with plasma, coursing off the steel as it runs from his magic and through the blade.

Quick and precise, with the tremendous weight of the world swung down on his opposition. The font of his soul would be summoned forth in the blazing strike, scorching the ground from which he stood upon. "Overdrive!" The mantle intensifies, cackling with electrical flames that illuminate the cave with a furious, ominous glow. One slash, two and three. The aftershock of his strikes leave behind a furious blitz of purple fire. The radiant, raw flames scorch even the waters it stood upon, leaving nothing to stand untouched by its prowess.

The blade would be his focus, coupling the form into something more, something grand. From the simple stance of the Raging Demon, Nemein sought to use it as a building blocks for a more potent style. A harder emphasis on the wild, unrestrained strikes that could sunder the land and waters with one strike. It was time to adapt, it was time to overcome his lack of progression.

It was time to begin the Way of Sparda.
(Nemein Sparda)
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