Each blow sounded like thunder. Each blow tore more of the man's life away.
The human's body convulsed weakly under the onslaught, his head jerking with every strike, but his strength was already gone. His resistance faded with every passing second.
Finally, after a few more brutal punches, the man's body went still.
Juer'lo halted, his chest rising and falling with a savage rhythm, his knuckles dripping in blood and bits of flesh.
His victim's face was no longer recognizable as human—it was reduced to a mangled, unidentifiable ruin, caved in by the repeated impacts.
Where once burned a pair of defiant eyes, there was nothing left but darkness and gore.
The flames that had once cloaked the man in defiance were gone. Extinguished. His body lay in ruin, chest rising faintly with shallow, ragged breaths. He was alive only in the most fragile sense, his life hanging by a thread. Death lingered inches away.
