The air grew heavier as Laden and Adams stood facing each other, both figures now drenched in blood, sweat, and exhaustion. Laden's gaze remained icy, his grip on his sword tight as he looked down at his son. Adams, barely standing, had one arm hanging useless at his side, the other trembling as he wiped a streak of blood from the corner of his mouth. His face was pale, his body broken, but his spirit remained alight, burning with an unwavering resolve.
Laden's dark armor gleamed under the dim light of the sky, his jaw clenched tight, his expression a mask of restrained fury. He towered over Adams, his eyes a cold, piercing gaze that seemed to cut through the very soul of his son. But deep within, there was a flicker of something elseāsomething that neither pride nor rage could fully conceal.
Pity.
