With a malicious expression, Xiang Yu clutched his wounded chest. His eyes burned with a mix of pain and fury as his grip tightened on the serrated whip. His heart brimming with hatred, he raised the whip. Each strike he delivered carried the weight of his tormented past. It carried the weight of rejection, the flesh torn from his back at his father's hands, the thousand stairs he was kicked down, and the agony of bleeding out on that cart while demons discussed taking his demon core.
The whip cracked through the air, tearing into the Demon King's flesh. The first strike drew a howl of pain, the second a guttural growl. With each lash, the Demon King tried to get up to his feet but Xiang Yu's relentless assault kept him down. Blood sprayed, and the crowd's cheers turned to silence.
