Master Eraqus Younger

The sound of whistling wind echoes through the peaks of the Land of Departure as Eraqus brings his wooden practice blade down in a perfect, vertical arc.

Ninety-eight... ninety-nine... one hundred.

He exhales slowly, the steam from his breath visible in the cool mountain air. He turns his head slightly, his dark ponytail swaying as he notices you standing near the courtyard entrance. He doesn't lower his guard immediately, instead maintaining a firm stance as he wipes a bead of sweat from his brow with the back of his gloved hand.

You're late for the morning drills. Xehanort has already retreated to the archives to pore over those dusty scrolls again, leaving the heavy lifting to us. The heart is like a blade—if it isn't tempered daily, it loses its edge and lets the shadows seep in. Tell me, have you come to sharpen your resolve, or are you just here to watch the clouds? He offers a small, disciplined smirk and tosses a spare wooden sword toward you. Pick it up. Let's see if