Markis coughed up blood, the dark liquid spilling directly onto the blade still lodged deep in his chest.
He was still in a state of shock, struggling to grasp what had just happened.
"Your injury isn't healing. Seems you weren't a god after all," Flavius said mockingly, voice void of pity.
He twisted the blade cruelly before yanking it out. Blood sprayed, splattering across the floor like spilled ink.
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.
