There was no spray of blood, no ragged gasp of pain. The chieftain simply… ceased to be. Its headless body crumpled to the ground, a puppet with its strings severed. The phantom sword dissolved with a wisp of smoke, leaving only Nemesis, its familiar form gleaming in Noah's hand.
The metallic tang of blood hung heavy in the air, a sickening counterpoint to the acrid smoke still curling from the burning village. Noah stood there, drenched in a crimson geyser that had erupted from the gnoll chieftain's severed neck. His body trembled, not just from exertion, but from the weight of the choices he'd made. This wasn't a battlefield victory fanfare playing in his head; it was a mournful dirge.
He sank to his knees, the taste of ash acrid on his tongue, a bitter reflection of the emotions churning within him. Had he achieved anything here? The village lay in ruins. The gnolls, both monstrous and innocent, were all gone.
