One by one, Virion made me wield nearly every weapon imaginable.
Swords. Axes. Spears. Daggers. Maces. Chainblades. Even a ridiculously oversized scythe that nearly took my head off when I tried to swing it.
Each attempt ended the same way—with Virion's merciless critiques carving deeper into my confidence than any blade could.
"Your footwork is atrocious."
"Do you intend to tickle your enemies to death?"
"I've seen corpses with better coordination."
"You are going to hung yourself if you use it that way."
By the time we finished, my hands trembled, my muscles burned, and my gaze had gone disturbingly empty.
My confidence had long plummeted to zero and gone all the way to -1000.
I stared at my palms, the echoes of failure ringing louder than Virion's taunts.
Is it because I'm a background character?
Is that why I have no talent for any weapon?
The thought slithered through my mind, poisonous and suffocating.
