Gerhardt, bloodied and battered, stumbled across the battlefield, every step a testament to his desperation.
His staff, a once-pristine artifact of power, was now splintered and smeared with grime, shaking in his trembling hands.
His mana reserves were nearly depleted, and his body screamed in agony from the countless wounds carved into his flesh. Yet, his eyes burned with a fierce determination.
"I won't die here. Not like this. Not to them." His voice was hoarse, barely audible above the chaos around him.
As he fell to his knees, surrounded by the smoldering ruins of his comrades and their fallen mounts, Gerhardt made a choice that would haunt the battlefield for eternity.
With trembling fingers, he reached into his blood-soaked robes and pulled out a rune-carved dagger, its blade gleaming faintly with forbidden magic.
Desperate times call for desperate measures, he thought grimly, clutching the dagger tightly.
