Nero limped toward the exit of the skull, each step sending fresh waves of pain through his battered body.
With his broken arm still uselessly attached to his side, and his injured leg threatened to give out with every movement, with the lingering ache from the Mark of Mephistopheles, everything just felt so surreal.
He looked up through the shade of the enormous skull's opening.
The clouds in the sky were an array of colors. In a sense, there was a subtle wave of beauty to this tumultuous world of danger.
One that struck at the depths of his soul almost poetically. A rich vibrancy that even words would fall short of when used to imagine.
He put one leg after another as he kept moving forward.
After he had grabbed it, Gungnir had finally calmed down. Using the spear as support, he trudged forward.
