Michael
Though the immortal returned the bow Vanguard offered, his words were strange to him. For a moment, Michael found himself wondering just what the man had done with his innumerable days, to have such a view. Perhaps his prowess in combat was to be respected, but it seemed that he simply didn't know how crafting a weapon worked beyond the most basic form, the cheapest of worksmanship. All the same, he could agree to a degree with what Vanguard was saying, he was being rather soft on the girl, even if this was supposed to be a test. How easily she'd had the drive knocked out of her was rather concerning as well, though it was just something else to work on at this point. She was still young, after all.
Releasing Meti's blades, the immortal turned away to pick up his staff once more, hefting the length over his shoulder with his posture as relaxed as ever as he used the time to consider what to say.
"Indeed I am," Michael said, turning back to the two, "And it seems that I may have to work a bit harder at it. Chances are simply telling why you lost wouldn't suffice, so I'll let you figure it out for yourself, Meti."
"Though, I have to ask," Michael continued, "Have you forged a weapon before, Vanguard?"
With that, the immortal allowed a moment's focus before casting off every last layer of concealment over his own presence, letting a primal malice refined over long millennia of existence be felt. Forged in the fires of countless battles and quenched in the rivers of blood he'd spilled, this was the presence he let free, roiling and lashing out like a living being at all nearby, though still entirely under Michael's control. Allowing a moment for it to be felt, the immortal focused it down to a razor's edge, his sight only upon Meti now, his focus sharpening until it was as if he were trying to cut Meti open with his intent alone, from her hip up to her shoulder, just as she'd tried to cut him earlier.
Now then, let's see what you've learned.
