Zane's words hung in the air, desperation visible on his face as he struggled to stay upright. Blood poured from his injured arm, staining the stage beneath him. His regenerative ability kicking in to slowly heal the wounds.
The crowd murmured in disbelief-how could he still stand after such a crushing blow?
Alistair's cold eyes narrowed. "You're a fool."
With a grimace, Zane thrust his uninjured arm forward, and tendrils of blood energy surged to life around him, though weaker than before. His chest heaved with labored breaths as he willed his blood art to respond, forming the remnants of a weapon in his hand. But instead of a sword, the blood energy twisted and condensed into a pair of crimson gauntlets around his fists.
"He's really pushing himself past his limit," Damien muttered, shifting to the edge of his seat. "Can he even fight like this?"
