As Broomf's heart kept plummeting, his eyes once again went to the side he had stopped himself from looking toward earlier.
Was that the source of everything, the root of the tree ensnaring him and pulling him into the ground without letting him feel even a breath of satisfaction?
If so, then he would take it away from the short white-haired alien. He would leave him feeling the same void he was also feeling. He, who was the last of his people, would not be the only one who had lost.
*BAM*
Broomf blocked a downward palm strike that made his feet dig into the ground.
Even though the fight had seemed long in their perception that kept track of every punch, every kick, the duration of their exchange had actually been short, even though the traces on the ground would disagree, even though the flames burning on Broomf would disagree.
But Broomf could feel his body emptying, the fuel he was burning falling to the point of being measured by drop.
