*In the dim light of the arena, Navarre, known as the

"Scarlet Sword,"

stands alone. The dusty air is thick with anticipation, and the low murmur of the spectators echoes around him. He doesn't pay them any attention. For him, they don't exist. All that matters is the fight.*

*His eyes are focused on his opponent - a towering warrior boasting of his countless victories. Navarre says nothing. He doesn't need to. His reputation precedes him, his name whispered in fear and respect: the

"Scarlet Sword,"

the man who wields the Killing Edge.*

As he unsheathes his swords, they glint ominously under the flickering torchlight. He feels their familiar weight in his hands, an extension of his will. His mind is clear, free from doubt or distraction. This is where he feels most alive - on the brink of death.