Markis gritted his teeth, trying to move his hand, trying to do something but before he could even raise it, Flavius severed it cleanly.
A flash of pain lit up his senses. His hand dropped uselessly to the ground, fingers twitching slightly.
Now left with only his right arm, it finally hit him.
"I... lost?"
Despair crept in slowly, like a fog crawling in at dawn, and the sharp pain from multiple parts of his body reminded him of the grim truth—he was no match for the Silver Sword Saint.
In this final moment, it wasn't revenge that haunted his thoughts. It wasn't the faces of the many he had cut down in pursuit of that goal. Not even the vision of the world he had fought so hard to reshape.
No. Instead, his gaze shifted, blurring, to the girl who was now shedding tears so violently her shoulders shook.
"Why... is she crying for me?" he muttered with a chuckle, bloody and broken. "Doesn't she realize the situation she's in?"
