As Drakion continued the hunt for his prey, he suddenly felt something—a calling—and it was close. In that moment, everything around him seemed to pause. His gaze fell upon the Death Reaper, which now shone with an eerie, resplendent light.
Drakion stood amid a silence older than time, in a place where even death itself had once paused to breathe. And in that timeless stillness, he saw the truth behind the edge. He closed his eyes… in silence.
This was no blade of wrath or rage.
It held no hunger.
It did not seek, nor did it thirst for blood.
The scythe waited—always—its edge untouched by desire.
He saw it—not with his eyes, but with his soul. The Scythe Intent was not about slaughter. It was about timing, precision, and the inevitability of severance. Just as a farmer does not reap the seedling, the scythe falls only when something has truly reached its end.
It demanded no emotion. No hatred. Only clarity.
To cut only what had reached its final note.
