Klaus staggered, his body heavy with exhaustion. Every labored breath felt like a struggle, each inhalation burning his lungs with a searing intensity. He leaned heavily on his sword, the weight of his fatigue bearing down on him like a leaden cloak.
His limbs trembled with the effort of standing, the strain of battle evident in every line etched into his weary frame. His once-pristine clothes were now torn and bloodied, the fabric clinging to his skin like a second layer of skin. Each movement sent a wave of pain coursing through his body, a constant reminder of the brutal ordeal he had endured.
The cuts and bruises that marred his flesh throbbed with a dull ache, the sensation pulsating with every beat of his heart. His skin was a patchwork of crimson and purple, a testament to the ferocity of the battle that had raged around him. Yet despite the pain, Klaus stood tall, his gaze steady and unwavering.
