I got a katana for myself.
Finally, a weapon that looked like it wanted to commit tax fraud with me. Sleek, sharp, black—like depression in blade form. Stronges handed it to me, and I swear, if I wasn't already straight, I would've proposed to that sword right there and then.
The edge gleamed so beautifully it could cut through both flesh and emotional attachment. Aura farming with this baby? Oh, I was about to become the Elon Musk of murder energy.
"Thank you, master," I said, pretending to be humble but vibrating with main-character energy. "I don't even want to know why you chose this for me because I am glad for it. I shall use it to behead Malthus and place his ugly head at your feet like a dog bringing back its owner's stolen slipper."
I bowed. Deeply. Like an anime protagonist begging for a season renewal.
Stronges walked toward me—slow, deliberate, the kind of walk that says, I've killed people for less.
