Thirty minutes later. Fell stood in the middle of the battlefield, mountains of corpses laid on top of each other under his feet. His breathing haggard, and his face slightly pale from his overexertion. He couldn't help but look around him with a tired yet satisfied glance on the pile of corpses at his feet.
His black cloth had turned into dirty crimson rags with the many liters of blood that had spilled on him. Numerous apparent injuries could be seen on his back; notably, a deep laceration could be seen on his forearm. Deep to the point where the white of his bone could be seen.
His throat was sore from all the roars he had unleashed. As for his mind, although it couldn't be said that he was tired, fatigue was still slowly creeping around the corner. If he kept fighting at the same intensity, he would soon arrive at a point where he would be wasted.
