His axe hammered into the side of a steel covered head. A level ninety man, a gold mercenary, someone with enough experience and talent that his life was practically set for him, and Vol, with a single motion, had made his head ring like a drum. He'd left a vicious gash in the side of that head. Out came the pouring of brains that knew all the expert sword techniques that had made the man as overwhelming as he was. Down went his polished steel armour, marred by mud, blood, and the chunks of his own viscera.
Vol stepped over him as if he was nothing – a man that, in his own right, could have gone anywhere and been noted as significant. Vol made him seem no more special than another stone that decorated the riverbed.
