Klaus's arm was bent at an unnatural angle, but he still gripped his sabre tightly, showing no concern for the grotesque state of his limb.
Then, with a sickening snap, the arm straightened, almost mechanical like a robot arm. It looked painful to watch, but he was smiling.
Klaus wore a grin that seemed to mock his body's pain. His chest was torn open, blood flowing freely from the deep wound.
His sides were riddled with hundreds of cuts—some shallow, others viciously deep.
One of his legs displayed a glaring white bone, exposed and devoid of flesh, with no hope of healing anytime soon. Yet, not a single groan or pained sound escaped his lips.
He endured it all with unyielding resolve.
What a maniac.
"Three," Klaus muttered with a grin before he moved.
Well, vanished.
