“…Haa.”
The breath he’d been holding burst forth in a ragged exhale.
The clamor of the knights dispatched by the Order faded into the distance. The sun dipped below the horizon, and raindrops began to patter down from the sky.
The encroaching night would soon shroud the pursuers’ sight, and the rain would erase the fugitive’s tracks, blending them into the earth.
Yet, neither the night nor the rain could truly be called his allies. With a mortal wound gnawing at his body, they would only bind his faltering steps to this perilous forest, draining his strength with merciless speed.
The bleeding refused to relent.
Am I going to die? Probably.
If I use the demonic sword…
He flinched.
A demonic sword? He was the master of the Holy Sword—why would such a thought even cross his mind?
But the situation was too dire to linger on the dissonance in his head.
I’ve lost too much blood.