The elevator stopped and then the lights went out.

It took him several seconds to realize that there was no more light. For true darkness did not exist for him anywhere in this world. In his eyes, the difference between light and darkness, day and night, could be very subtle.

Desmond harbored no hope that the elevator would ever start up again.

It wasn't that it just happened to stop at the most inconvenient possible moment, but....

“To tell you the truth, I didn't expect this. You may be strong, but your mind isn't up to it. Getting into an elevator in the middle of hostile territory? Really?"

It had been deliberately sabotaged.

There wasn't a person, all of a sudden, with him in the elevator.

That voice was coming to him over the PA system and he knew it well. It was the voice of that woman.

A woman he had only seen through Abigail's eyes, whose voice he had only heard through Abigail's ears.

Until now.

And now she was within his reach. And now, soon he would see her with his own eyes.

Very soon.

And then... He would settle the score.

He looked at the device where the voice was coming from.

“Where is she?"

“Oh, don't worry. Be a good boy and stand there waiting. I'll soon have you join her."

Desmond flashed a lopsided smile.

She wasn't wrong.

He could simply wait for them to come and pick him up. That would make his job easier... but it wasn't his style.

He had other plans.

For her.

For everyone.

“You're not alone in there. You hear me? Kill her. The more she suffers, the better. If you do, I'll spare your lives."

Desmond knew she wasn't alone.

He had seen the machinery, the objects, Abigail. He had seen many scientists. Creatures who didn't know how to defend themselves.

Creatures that would look for any way out.

“What are you...? Do you really think something like this will work? Then you're very wrong. You don't know anything about us."

That this woman believed this tactic had no chance of working was laughable.

It wouldn't work immediately, of course.

They didn't have a motive.

But, once he gave it to them... once he broke through all the enemies and got in where they had Abigail, when there was no longer anything between them and him....

Then things would come to their natural outcome.

There was no doubt in his mind.

In such a desperate situation, something like this would work even with people from Albion.

Whereas now he was dealing with Imperials. With things that weren't human.

What did it mean for someone who wasn't human to 'betray' one of their own?

Nothing, of course.

Absolutely nothing.

He didn't bother to respond to that creature's protests. He had no time to waste, and he had already made his move.

To him, it was as if that hateful creature was already dead.

The dead couldn't hear you.

So why waste time and oxygen talking to them? What would be the point of that? Desmond therefore set to work on getting out of there. He opened the roof of the elevator with his sword.

It wasn't difficult, or even slow.

Desmond's sword tore through the elevator ceiling as if it were made of paper instead of metal.

He climbed onto the roof and...

He jumped toward the wall, buried the sword there. He slid downward as the sword shattered the wall, opening an ever-widening crack.

Down, as low as he could go.

Abigail was in the bowels of this facility. It might be a public place, but of course, they weren't going to keep her in plain sight. No one here would have a problem with the inhumane treatment Abigail was receiving, once they knew she wasn't one of their own. It wasn't about that; it was about the fact that Abigail was too valuable a prize to be careless with her.

They had to take every measure necessary to make escape difficult.

Keeping her away from most people was, moreover, a measure against her being able to trick someone into releasing her. It wasn't out of the question, that something like that would happen.

In fact, he would say that Abigail would find it easy.

If she had a moment alone with the right person.

Desmond made it to the ground, without breaking anything along the way.

The right wall of the elevator tunnel now looked more like a large depression.

He hurried to get out of the way. In case it fell on him.

He looked for the door.

Desmond stuck the fingers of both hands into the gap in the door and pulled to open it. It opened easily and quickly, hardly putting up any resistance in the face of his superhuman strength. That was not a problem. The problem was that they were already waiting for him, as it was to be expected.

He was greeted by a hail of bullets. Soldiers of the Empire, armed to the teeth, filled that narrow corridor. And they were firing at him non-stop. His physical reinforcement was almost one hundred percent. Well, it's not like he knew the exact percentages, that's not how it worked. But the thing is, he could still take a lot more.

The soldiers' bullets hitting him were not much worse than mosquito bites.

So he ran, fearlessly, toward the group of soldiers who had been waiting for him. Anyway, it's not as if he could do anything else. The corridor was too narrow.

He had nowhere to hide. He couldn't turn around and catch them by surprise somehow.

Going back the way he'd come, waiting for them in the elevator shaft, wasn't an option either.

They had nothing to lose by waiting.

Whereas Desmond was in a race against time.

But I haven't even started yet, you bastards. I haven't even started yet.

The corridor was so narrow that he had nowhere to run, even if he wanted to. But, of course, the same applied the other way around.

So they hadn't caught him. In fact, they had made a fatal mistake.

Seeing that their efforts were to no avail, they began to panic. And he hadn't even gotten to them yet. Hah.

“It's true. It's a monster.

The speaker tried to load his rifle. However, the magazine slipped through his hands and ended up on the ground.

Soon he too would be on the ground.

But not in one piece.

Ha, not in one piece.

At last he arrived. He charged into the mass of soldiers like an ox.

They fell back as fast as they could, of course. But, as he had already established...

They had nowhere to run.

They had no choice but to suffer what they had brought upon themselves.

He wouldn't fall today... but, even if it did in the end, none of them would live to see it.

They would die for nothing and be forgotten.

No one would know their names. No one would care.

None of these were protected with that special armor, either.

So it would be easy.

Soon enough, it would have been easy.

Desmond swung the sword.

With a single blow, the first victim's head flew off, helmet included. Oh. It hadn't been the first, of course.

He had already killed dozens.

Just today. Just in the last hour, even.

How many more? How many more would he have to kill before he could rest?

Well. As always... he could think about such things when he was done. When he was so bathed in blood that he couldn't even see properly.

He swung his sword.

Every time he swung his sword, someone fell.

But not always immediately.

Not everyone died a quick, easy death, but rather the way he liked it. Many of them died screaming. Relieving. No, bleeding to death.

But they also did quite a bit of the former.

Too late for it to matter, they cursed the circumstances that had led them here.

They cursed having to die like this.

They screamed to the heavens that couldn't hear them.

Yes.

The heavens were far away. They would all die without ever seeing the sun again. Desmond, for some reason, shivered at the thought.

A grenade.

A grenade flew toward him.

He jumped backwards out of the way. But he had limited space to do so, though he had no shortage of speed.

He escaped the grenade explosion.

But not entirely, or maybe he hadn't escaped in the first place, maybe the explosion would have destroyed him if he were a normal human being.

The fact is that he ended up lying on the ground. His head spinning like crazy.

Disoriented. Wanting to vomit.

Dust and soot on his clothes.

But that was it. He wasn't bleeding, he wasn't even a little hurt.

He was fine for now.

For now, but he had a long road ahead of him. Many enemies to face, so....

What?

Desmond recovered quickly, rising to his feet.

A barrier of thick black smoke had formed between him and the enemies. It prevented him from seeing, even though he was using the reinforcement on his eyes, which was annoying.

He was used to not having to worry about obstacles like that, for the most part.

But of course. There was an exception for everything. A limit to everything.

Instead of running through the black smoke, swinging his sword blindly, Desmond decided to stay where he was.

He took a knee, crouching low.

Desmond thrust his sword into the smoke as if it were a spear.

A muffled groan came to him.

That confirmed that he had hit someone. He may not have killed him, but at least he had hit him. Hit the target he was aiming at.

Desmond called the sword back to his hand.

It was as if he possessed a bow with infinite ammunition. Only his sword hit harder than any bow could give an arrow.

Smiling, Desmond threw the sword again.

This time, if it had hit any of the soldiers, he didn't hear it. He frowned as quickly as he had smiled.

In such a narrow, almost claustrophobic corridor, he had somehow managed to miss the shot?

Now that was not having luck on his side.

Whatever, Desmond told himself. You can try as many times as it takes. Until the smoke clears.

Two, three times, he estimated.

Once it dissipated, he would go on the attack, as before, instead of going through with it.

The smoke wasn't a hindrance to the soldiers.

They couldn't see, any more than he could.

But they really didn't need to. They only had one enemy and they knew it was in front of them. If they pulled the trigger, sooner or later they would hit him.

Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

There was, of course, the risk of hitting one of their comrades.

But it was a minimal risk.

Anyone with the slightest trace of battle sense would have dropped to the ground, to allow those behind to have a clear line of fire.

So that there would be no such accidents.

Oh.

Sure, that's why he had missed.

He needed to aim lower. Desmond hadn't considered it until now. But it was a no-brainer.

Whatever, the adrenaline.

He threw the sword again.

There was no scream, this time not even a choked gasp. But the sound of a humanoid body being split in two was more than enough. And satisfying to his ears.

Something sweet as honey. Those sounds, those screams.

They deserve to die.

For everything they've done to me, for everything they've taken from me.

They deserve to die screaming.

Desmond threw the sword twice. Yet he only killed someone once. Yeah, he wasn't having much luck.

What was wrong with him?

Well, it wasn't like he needed to do it this way either.

Anyway, the smoke soon cleared. So Desmond went on the attack. Alone in the middle of the pack of Imperial dogs, he realized he should have done this from the beginning.

He could have slaughtered them all quietly before the smoke dissipated.

Additionally, they would have killed their comrades themselves, desperately shooting to defend themselves.

Staying back by throwing his sword had been the worst possible decision.

But he had done it because...

Fuck, it didn't matter anymore, it's not like he could go back and do better.

And what was more pointless than looking for meaning in meaningless nonsense?

It didn't take long for things to end.

Once it was all over, that he reached the other side of the hallway, he glanced back at his surroundings.

The hallway had been all white.

Even the lights, placed every few feet on the floor, walls and ceiling, had been pure white.

But...

Now the entire hallway was painted red, with blood and entrails.

Now, it looked like the inside of a slaughterhouse.

No, it was exactly that, wasn't it?

He turned his back on the corpses, blood and guts.

He moved on. Anyway, no matter where he went or which way he looked, what awaited him was more of the same.

——

More and more.

A constant cascade of hindrances, of obstacles in his way.

Desmond had the feeling that every time he got one out of the way, ten more would arrive to take its place.

Of course, that wasn't literally true.

But it probably wasn't too far from the truth either.

Over and over again.

No matter how many he killed, he had the overwhelming, desperate feeling that he wasn't making a single step forward.

Desmond ran up the stairs.

Someone stood in his way.

Desmond charged at him, sending him tumbling down the steps. He was going to kill him, crack his helmet and explode his head in one blow. But then he thought better of it.

Instead, he picked him up and flipped him over. Using him as a human shield.

To his surprise, the enemies around him stopped, hesitated.

He thought it would be useful, yes. But not like that. Not what human shields were normally good for. To buy time, at the very least. Among other things.

Hesitating?

Just because he had one of them?

The first thing he thought of was that this was an important person, one they couldn't afford to lose. Or at least someone who had a way to contribute greatly to the fight.

No, not that it was the first thing that crossed his mind, rather, it was the only thing it could be.

There was no other explanation for this behavior.

“What are you doing? Shoot!"

That was what the man shouted surrounded by his arms.

Signing his own death warrant.

Now that he had him in his grip, there was no way he was going to survive in the first place.

He wasn't making the ultimate sacrifice, in other words.

Simply deciding for himself at whose hands he wanted to die.

The enemy or his own people.

But it wouldn't be unusual for someone to lose their mind in a situation like this. Anyone would, clinging to the hope of getting out of this against all reason would tell them.

So it was not unusual for the man to behave irrationally.

What he couldn't explain was that this one had had to say it in the first place.

That he hadn't been bombarded by bullets, even explosives, as soon as he grabbed him.

What he couldn't explain...

Is that those things had reacted to the desperate command, full of false courage, as in an earthquake.

In other words.

They trembled, they recoiled. Shaken. They had been shaken.

Why had they been shaken?

It didn't make sense.

It didn't make sense, no matter how much he thought about it. Fortunately... Order was restored to the world.

“Fire!"

Then, they opened fire.

——

“Doesn't stop," Victoria growled in a low voice, as if not realizing it. As if hoping she didn't hear her.

But Abigail did, of course.

She had good ears. And she was good at handling two things at once.

Well, in this case it helped that Desmond wouldn't need more than occasional guidance. Occasional warnings, advice. But very occasionally.

“They're not even slowing him down," Victoria growled more loudly.

That wasn't literally true, of course.

Incompetent or weak, by comparison, as the soldiers were, they would have to not be trying at all to even slow Desmond down.

They were succeeding in that, at least.

But Victoria must have perceived it as such.

Because Desmond was getting closer and closer. Because death was getting closer and closer, without stopping.

She wasn't talking about Desmond, with that.

Not necessarily.

Victoria knew it, too. She was looking around. The faces, the eyes of her companions. With suspicion.

Desmond had planted a seed in their minds and it was germinating.

At least that's what Victoria suspected.

Abigail could read people, anyone, like open books. So she knew better.

They weren't considering betraying her yet.

Not yet.

Their trust was still firm.

But Victoria's trust, that one was falling apart, in pieces. Good.

“You're finally getting it. I've been warning you all this time, yet it's taken you so long to understand. Shameful, don't you think?"

Victoria turned around.

She faced her, her face being contorted with rage, as if she had some kind of power over her.

Even imaginary power was slipping through her fingers.

“Do you still feel like talking?"

“It's not the first time they've done this to me," Abigail said. "Living a life as long as mine, I can say the same thing about practically anything."

“Still, you feel pain."

Abigail shrugged. Well, as much as was possible within her limited capabilities.

“What is pain?“ she answered, simply, with a question.

Victoria spat in her face.

“Pain," she muttered, beside herself, trembling with what the scientist would like to think was just rage, surely, "is what you'll feel when we gut your child in front of your eyes. Without you being able to do anything."

Abigail didn't even bother to wipe the saliva off her face. She didn't even blink. But that was only her outward reaction. The threat was enough, it didn't have to be believable, and it wasn't. She swore she would pay for simply having uttered such words.

“Go ahead, you try."

——

Despite the determination to sacrifice their comrade, things ended up as they did in the hallway. When it all came to an end, Desmond found himself alone, surrounded by blood and corpses. Sacrifice their partner?

Sacrifice his partner?

They had no souls. They weren't human beings; they didn't even know the meaning of sacrifice. This was no time to think strange thoughts.

At the end of it all, they had fired as it was expected they would.

Shattering to pieces the soldier he used as a human shield.

That doubt was explained as he had already done it. Or perhaps it had simply been an aberration. Something without a natural explanation, that had just happened... but wouldn't happen again.

It didn't matter.

Desmond stood upright and continued on his way, following the directions of the ghostly Abigail.

How many hallways would he have to cross?

How many rooms would he have to clean?

How many corpses would he have to pile up, until this was all over?

Whatever it takes, he answered himself. Until the end.

——

One more room.

This one was no different from the others, except for the fact that it was empty, at least for the moment.

The corridors and rooms, at this level, all looked identical. As if they had been designed with the intention of confusing intruders.

Perhaps they had been, in part.

White walls, ceilings and floors. And those annoying lights, installed everywhere.

It was hard to tell if he had already passed through a place or not. If he was alone in this, the only thing to guide him would be the corpses he himself had sown.

Fortunately, he wasn't alone in this.

He had better help. Abigail's help.

There wasn't much she could do when projecting herself, but it would allow him to not lose himself along the way.

That was enough.

Time was a valuable resource.

They weren't going to take her out of this place, but the more time he wasted, the more he wandered around trying to find her, the more his physical reinforcement would wear down.

Bringing him closer and closer to death.

So, for that reason, her help was absolutely indispensable.

He could take a lot, but he had a limit. Everything has a limit.

He took several steps forward. Abigail hadn't disappeared again, she was still with him, for the moment.

Desmond pulled back abruptly, guided by his instinct. Without even thinking about it.

In time, albeit barely, to avoid... a huge pane of glass slamming into him, cutting.

A huge pane of glass had moved from a slot in the wall to one on the other side of the room.

He looked around. Like shards of a huge broken mirror, panes of glass were crisscrossing the room, from one side to the other.

Continuously.

In and out. He couldn't imagine the purpose of a room like this... if it was anything more than a trap.

Anyway, it had been close.

That had been dangerous.

No, he didn't think it was a single one created with the intention of being a trap for intruders. The movement of the crystals was predictable. Besides, they weren't moving at such a great speed either.

Enough to split a normal person in two, but Desmond would be able to make it to the other side, intact, even without using his magic.

Not because he was exceptional.

It was just that it wasn't anything particularly difficult.

It was a trap of sorts, but an accident. The purpose was another. Even if he couldn't guess it.

He crossed the first of the crystals, getting into the space between that one and the next.

In that space he was safe.

The crystals crossed in a straight line, following the only path they could travel.

Desmond could take as much time as he wanted, be sure before he jumped.

He could, but he wouldn't.

He broke into a run. If one of the panels hit him, he would get back up. That was all.

But...

Soon after, he encountered a different obstacle.

Between the glass panels that continuously passed from left to right, he appeared. It was a woman wrapped in the armor of that night. The night that had started the chain of unfortunate events that had ended in... in this. Armor shrouded in a blood-red glow.

A pane of glass passed between them. Completely obscuring it from her view. It was then that she realized that even though it was glass, it wasn't transparent. It would have been easy to notice if she had been looking, if she was thinking normally.

Neither of those two things were true.

Desmond was... strange.

Something was wrong with him, something beyond nerves. From the excitement of having Abigail so close, at last.

And the fear of losing her.

Something. Something.

But...

The pane of glass passed, allowing him to observe his enemy again.

It was a single enemy.

Shouldn't be much of a problem, even in that armor and in an environment like this.

Peculiarly, Desmond wasn't carrying a rifle in his hands.

His weapon of choice was some sort of staff... that sizzled electricity.

It merited curiosity, but nothing more. This thing had been sent as a lamb to the slaughter so they could buy time. Nothing more. It would die like everyone else, armor or no. Strange new weapon or not.

Another pane of glass passed between them.

When the path was clear, the enemy lunged for it, brandishing the electric baton. To call it something.

Desmond, grinning mockingly, raised an arm.

Not to protect himself from the attack. He didn't need to protect himself. That voltage most certainly wouldn't even tickle him. What he intended to do was to knock the gun out of his hands with a casual swipe, as if he were shooing away a fly.

To show how strong he was.

To show that she had nothing to do against him, before killing her.

To... To punish.

Mainly to punish her.

That's what these games he played were all about.

But...

When the cane made contact with his forearm, the world spun around. All his senses were disrupted.

He felt as if the blood was burning in his veins.

Literally burning.

But it wasn't his blood that was burning, only his arm.

His arm, twisted in a strange, unnatural position. His arm...

Broken.

That's where the immense pain was coming from, as if it was burning.

What was it?

Desmond staggered back. It wasn't a trick of his mind. The arm really was broken. It wouldn't respond to his commands.

The enemy had rammed him. Perhaps he had intended to throw him to the ground. What he did, however, was to slam him against a pane of glass as he passed. Putting the baton to his neck, squeezing, choking. Sparks flew close to his face. He could feel the power of electricity concentrated there, from so close.

The electricity...

Desmond realized what had happened. The electricity had disturbed the flow of magical energy in his arm, causing it to basically destroy itself.

He felt a shiver.

If it had hit him in the head, he'd be blind right now.

No, even worse. His head would have literally exploded. He would have been killed and captured so easily, in an instant. His fault. For underestimating his opponent. Why was he playing when the 'prize' was Abigail's safety?

He felt a chill, again.

Close. That had been too close...and still was.

It's not like he was out of danger.

He was literally against the wall.

Until the wall gave way.

No, it moved, as it always was going to. It was easy to forget that he was fighting in a constantly changing environment, he supposed. The fear of having come so close to being defeated, of what that baton could do to him, didn't help him keep a clear head. Of course.

As the 'wall' moved..., the enemy didn't lose her footing, didn't show any weakness.

She had been waiting for that, unlike him.

Of course, something so convenient wasn't going to happen. Now he had greater freedom of movement, albeit briefly... and he was still trapped by that woman, so he couldn't take advantage of it.

He had to get that stick out of his face as soon as possible.

That was the only thing he had to concentrate on. As fast as possible, even if he had to sacrifice his other arm!

As long as he defended his head, anything went.

As long as he was alive, he hadn't lost!

He grabbed the baton, placing his left hand over his enemy's hand.

He was willing to sacrifice an arm... but if he didn't have to, he wouldn't. They struggled for possession of the weapon.

His enemy's armor glowed brighter, he began to hear, even, a hum of effort. Effort that saw its reward.

The enemy spun them around.

They exchanged positions, just not exactly. Desmond ended up a few millimeters further back than he was before.

Not much, but enough distance to turn the tables.

Because, when the next panel passed, he was hit squarely.

Desmond staggered backward.

He went down rolling.

Not able to recover, he ended up on the ground. And the enemy went for him immediately.

Without giving him time to breathe, as it should be.

Worst of all, it wasn't a wasted effort.

Worst of all, as soon as he made the slightest mistake, she would kill him. He would come back to life afterwards, but it would be a defeat, all the same.

It would be like being dead. Or even worse.

When she came within reach of his hands, Desmond grabbed her by an ankle and yanked.

Sending her to the ground with him.

He didn't think that would work. But it had. And he would take advantage of it.

Desmond jumped, rising to his feet, he swung his sword at the enemy's chest. But the edge of his sword didn't even come close.

The enemy dodged the attack.

Then, she struck him in the left arm with that damned fucking baton.

Desmond gasped, gritted his teeth hard.

Fire.

The blood in his veins, once again, was replaced by fire.

The sword, of course, fell to the ground, next to the enemy he was supposed to finish off.

He no longer had hands to hold that with, after all.

His arms.

His arms were broken.

Desmond shrank in on himself. He wasn't frightened. Like a wild beast, he shrank back, lowering his center of gravity. Then he let out from deep in his throat a sound that was truly that of an animal, not a human being.

A scream of pure rage, of bloodlust.

Unstoppable.

They weren't animals, however.

He couldn't hope to make her back down, intimidate her, with noise alone.

He wouldn't, and he didn't.

The enemy brandished the baton once more.... It had charge for a while, if it was limited that way.

She brandished it at his head.

It had broken both his arms. It had torn off his claws, in other words.

But... he still had left...!

He dodged the first blow, passing underneath.

The second he dodged it too. But in a more direct way. Desmond stomped on his enemy's ankle with all his might. Force enough to make the armor give way, cracking.

Force enough to make her scream and drive one knee into the ground.

Then he threw himself on top of her.

Like a wild beast, he went for her neck.

His teeth tore it like paper, but he shattered them in the process.

So what? They would regenerate in time, like everything else.

The woman, shrieking in pain, still wasted no time. She tried to hit him in the back.

Before the blow connected, Desmond shut down the entire system. He cut off the flow of magical energy, not only in the area where it would hit, but everywhere. Because he couldn't afford to tread lightly. Because he had had to act fast. Maybe it had been his last mistake, though. Electricity coursed through his entire body.

Desmond threw his head back.

It sounded strange... it sounded like the echo of a scream. Perhaps because of the almost complete lack of teeth.

In any case, his head felt very light.

Like a balloon.

A balloon full of oxygen, about to burst. To finally burst.

He thought the balloon would burst.

In other words, that he would lose consciousness, having made the last and biggest mistake of his life.

But no.

He managed to cling to it.

He sank as if he would fall for a moment, but then he pulled himself upright, holding himself .... not standing.

As he was. On all fours, on top of the enemy.

All his teeth were broken. What little was left in his mouth could only be described as a ruin.

In his mouth was mixed the blood of the enemy and his own.

And it was spilling out, spilling out like a fountain.

Desmond pulled back, before the enemy could finish the job. And, hastily, he rebuilt the system that gave him strength. That had allowed him to come so far. His arms weren't broken in a conventional way. On similar occasions, he had been able to keep moving his broken arms, with the reinforcement magic, enduring the terrible pain.

But now the arms didn't respond to his commands in any way.

Every bone in both his arms was broken.

The muscles too.

If it were only a matter of the pain, he would already be moving them as freely as possible, depending on the condition of the arm.

... But it wasn't just a matter of that.

There was literally nothing left to move.

Before he knew it, it was all over.

His sword... was buried in the enemy's shoulder. Through the hole he had opened in the armor with his teeth.

He saw surprise on the enemy's face.

But there was no one more surprised than himself.

He had stabbed her in the shoulder?

The only possible answer was that at least one of his arms could move again and that was what he saw when he looked down. His right arm had recovered.

But already? So easily? So fast?

No matter how many times he tossed and turned it around in his head, what was in front of his eyes was real. There wasn't any point in questioning it.

Just react to it.

And react he did.

No one will die just from being stabbed in the shoulder, of course. But a single instant decided the difference between life and death.

The seconds that stab bought him were more than enough to decide the outcome of the fight.

Desmond wrenched the electric baton from his enemy's hands.

Holding it in his working hand, he struck her head. Again, and again.

After a while, he stopped, the baton raised above his head. Dripping with blood.

Was this over?

Desmond watched the blood that had flooded the helmet overflow.

He noted that the sounds had ceased at some point. Now, the only thing reaching his ears was his own agitated breathing. And the crackling of the electricity that enveloped the staff.

Yes. This had come to an end.

He thought about dropping the baton to retrieve his sword. But he decided it would be best to keep it close. And out of the enemy's reach.

At least for the time being.

If he needed the sword, he could summon it at any time.

In other words, there was nothing to lose by trying. So, he would try.

He staggered forward, continuing on his way.

His right arm was still useless.

As for his face, gods, Desmond didn't even want to think about it. Let alone see it with his own eyes. He couldn't bear such a gruesome sight.

Not on his own face.

Speaking of which, he could hardly bear the thought of Abigail seeing him this way too.... But he had to keep going, in spite of that.

He couldn't wait until his face, and his teeth, recovered.

Besides...

He couldn't wait even if he wanted to. Because he had already removed the last obstacle in his way.

The last obstacle to getting to Abigail, that is.

Getting out of here with her would be quite a bit more complicated than that. In truth, this had only just begun. But...

He walked through the door.

At last.

At last, he would see her again. The night of the day he had fled the academy had seemed endless, but it had finally come to an end. He felt like a new man. As if he could breathe again.

The bowels of the capital of the beasts: FIN