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Scorched fields, the stench of blood, the screams. Kirimu darts through these, ignoring the burn in his feet, the weeping wounds on his skin, the despair clawing its way up his throat.
Too much. Too much. Too much. One man alone, separated from his allies, against a barrage of horrors. The dead of both sides rising as ghouls. Chimeras and machinery of myriad shapes. A gigantic marvel of mechanics that rips dragon wings apart before him.
Blasted scrap heap. He could not risk a ride on Kuyutha’s back because of it.
He has to move on foot. He has to strike at Xande and cut off the head of the beast.
Thousands of lives on his shoulders, he runs, no matter the pain, all signals of his body dismissed but the thought of forward.
Forward forward forward. Nothing else matters; only this.
Past desecrated lands, crying children,
captured gods,
corrupted friends,
sacrificed sisters,
stolen eyes,
devoured fathers,
lost hope.
What does he have left? What has that man not taken yet?
He should have killed him.
He could have killed him.
Were he not so selfish,
so lost in the game,
this wouldn’t have happened.
His fault.
His fault.
His fault.
A dead end, a wall. A trap.
A perilous blow.
A cry.
A fall.
Pain.
He tries to stand.
He can’t.
Darkness falls.
Then, sound. Words indecipherable in the fog.
The nudge of his head with a scepter.
No.
He knows—he knows that voice, but it can’t be—not now—
He falls back under, knowing he’s lost.