"My Lord," the demon breathed, his voice barely a whisper, his wide eyes warring with emotions as they stared into Seiya's gaze.
But Seiya was too far gone in his rage to care for the demon's words—or the desperate way he looked at him. His foot pressed down mercilessly, pinning the demon beneath him, while his staff hovered high, ready to descend at any moment.
One of Seiya's arms hung limp at his side, paralyzed and torn by injury. His shoulder, which had burst open like searing embers, was slick with blood, though steam still curled from the wound. Blood streaked down his forehead, dripping into his red-stained gaze. His once snow-white hair was matted with dirt, and his eyes, cold and gleaming, held the faint traces of blood. From the gaping hole in his chest, a steady trickle of blood dripped onto the demon below.
