The youth wraps the untied bindings once more. They were bound into thick layers, concealing the heavy sword—though it could hardly be called concealed, given its size, and its outline was clearly visible even completely covered. Its crossguard was wider than most people's arms, and its blade longer than most people were tall. The sealed sword showed nary a hint of edge, and while it was unable to kill in this state, the sight of it was enough to send a shiver down anyone's spine—perhaps this was its purpose, perhaps the youth who carried the blade did not wish to take anyone's life. He simply wished to have a sword, for merely having a sword was itself a message to his opponents. That a bloody death was at hand, that all that it would take was to remove some flimsy bindings—so do not remove those bindings. This really was what the youth thought. He deliberately wrapped his sword in bindings, hid its edge, concealed it, placed it where no one could see it. The blade required patience. Patience could avoid wearing it down, patience could avoid bloody carnage. Yet even if you remain patient for years, even if you placed it where no one could see it, it would still show its one true use at a glance. And so the youth treated the sword this way, just as the youth treated himself. He said 'I am the sword, I am its cutting edge, but I must be hidden away and concealed.' He used to carry himself as such, taking his anger, his torments, his suffering, his joy, his excitement, his inspiration, and burying them within the thick layers of bindings, body and soul both stretched taut. But now, it seems like everything has changed. Enemies appear from all directions—though it could hardly be called appearing, for the youth had already imagined them deep in the dense forests of Einwald, below the rainclouds of Sturmland, within the great lakes and rivers of Wasserland, entrenched atop the mud and stones of Erdenherre, their silhouettes doing their dealings amongst the spires, darting between the palaces, the academies, and the mansions. So these were hardly a surprise to him, but he simply did not expect today's situation. When a time comes where push truly comes to shove, might he find that he can no longer see their faces clearly, or know where they were? The enemy is not yet at hand, yet he knows that they are everywhere. He had clearly bound the wrapping in thick layers, yet why did he feel so exposed these days? He had anticipated, prepared for this day. Had known it would come. Fremont had already warned him earlier: this is a battle you chose yourself. It is a battle I chose myself, the youth thought, his sword sealed anew.