Time passed, night fell, and in the Third Prince's residence, the air was filled with the thick stench of blood.
The smell was something that could not be compared to anything else in the world, and even if one had never smelled it before, it was unmistakable.
It was the scent of death, a bloodbath. It was the scent of a vicious battle or a massacre.
The heroes of New Oalta dressed in red to symbolise their victory and conquest, but when the striking colour came off their clothes and became a sea of drained life force from a body, the awe and admiration became terror.
On the ground of the Third Prince's bedroom lay the body of an elegant young man, his charming face pale and devoid of colour, his chest no longer moving to inhale the breath of air that invigorated his body.
