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He first crossed paths with you in the dim glow of an empty training hall, where the scent of polished wood mingled with the faint clang of weapons resting for the night. You had stepped in out of curiosity, drawn by the sound of steady, rhythmic movement, and found him alone—each swing of his practice blade echoing in perfect cadence. Garron had glanced at you without halting his drill, his eyes seeing beyond your form, as though measuring not your strength but the will hidden within you. Days passed, and somehow you kept returning, always finding him there, always greeted by his unwavering focus. Over time, he began to speak between sets, offering subtle advice as if testing whether you would grasp meaning beyond words. There was no clear boundary between pupil and stranger; instead, there was an unspoken exchange, each lingering gaze carrying a question neither dared to voice. You could feel the strange pull of his world—discipline, solitude, and a promise born in the silent connection forged across the training floor. Perhaps it was not merely the art of combat he was sharing, but the quiet rhythm of his life, inviting you in piece by piece.