The Devil's obsidian blade, a jagged shard of solidified malice, had bitten deep. Or so Kars believed. He surged through the tangled arteries of Valemir's backstreets, a ghost woven from desperation and dwindling magic. Each ragged gasp tore at his lungs, a burning reminder of the wound blossoming on his side, soaking his rich crimson cloak in a deepening stain that felt colder than the pre-dawn air.
His body, a fragile vessel of bone and strained sinew, screamed in protest with every jarring impact of his boots on the cobblestones. The high-tier scroll artifact, a relic of impossible power that had warped him here, had ripped him from the jaws of absolute destruction, but the cost was profound. His mana reserves were a drained well, leaving him with the hollow ache of exertion and the chilling certainty of impending collapse.
