Kai was soaked in blood, most of which wasn't his own.
His shirt clung to his skin, dyed a deep crimson, and thick lines of gore traced along his arms and chest like war paint. His breath was ragged, the cold air scraping against his lungs as he took a shaky step forward. A shallow gash on his side had already knitted itself closed, a testament to the regenerative capabilities of his blood manipulation, but the ache lingered. Dull. Throbbing. Persistent.
"Ugh… screw that last beast," he muttered under his breath, flexing his fingers and flicking off droplets of drying blood.
Beside him, Takeshi moved with a strange, slowed elegance. His blade was clean-sheened to perfection as if he'd spent more time polishing it than swinging it, and not a single thread of his flowing robes was out of place. But even with that usual effortless grace, Kai could see it.
