Algar growled, holding his mangled left hand, which he had used to shield his face from the full blast of the shield. The left hand was missing a chunk from the elbow down, dripping blood onto the flowers.
"Will you surrender now?"
Algar's nostrils flared. "We, the descendants of the True Blightfur, don't surrender so easily!"
Atrox paused. "Blightfur?"
Algar snorted. "You don't even know anything. So how did you even get that power? Are you a blessed of the Crimson Lord?"
Atrox's heart skipped a beat. 'This is an opportunity to learn more about this Crimson Lord that sounds suspiciously like the Forbidden Knight whose inheritance I'm holding now!'
He acted casually. "Maybe I am. So tell me about this Crimson Lord and the True Blightfur."
Algar's lips curled. "You don't know about him, and you think you are his blessed? Don't make me laugh!"
