It didn't matter, that the list of dead Zhuiying carried in his head hadn't been added to in years. He simply believed that the Wolf had gotten so good at mauling his prey that the names never reached his ears.
He skidded through the snow as his target leapt to the side, slamming his heel hard enough into the ground to bring up dark earth in the white bank. He spun, barely catching the lunge with the edge of his blade, deflecting it only enough to hear the hum of the blade vibrating just beside his face.
He launched into another attack, but each blow he attempted to land was met with a parry - each lunge with a dodge. Each breath invited another attack.
Every time he twisted to avoid the strike, he left a fresh trail of blood in his wake, and soon the churned snow and earth bore enough of his blood to nearly be called kin. He was getting slower with every pass, his chest heaving, his eyes sharp as daggers. Each of his attacks was becoming more wild, leaving himself wider and wider open as he struggled to converse his energy for the assault and abandon his own defence. He felt pain erupt on his shoulder but still he kept fighting, each swing getting more and more erratic.
He was going to die. The knowledge hit him with a strange amount of lucidity, and yet he found he couldn't bring himself to care. If he could not complete his task, he deserved to die.
If he could not complete his task, his life would be devoid of every purpose he had known.
He lunged, putting all his remaining energy in a final strike, but off-balancing himself so badly that there would be no way to protect himself should his prey survive to retaliate.
no subject
He skidded through the snow as his target leapt to the side, slamming his heel hard enough into the ground to bring up dark earth in the white bank. He spun, barely catching the lunge with the edge of his blade, deflecting it only enough to hear the hum of the blade vibrating just beside his face.
He launched into another attack, but each blow he attempted to land was met with a parry - each lunge with a dodge. Each breath invited another attack.
Every time he twisted to avoid the strike, he left a fresh trail of blood in his wake, and soon the churned snow and earth bore enough of his blood to nearly be called kin. He was getting slower with every pass, his chest heaving, his eyes sharp as daggers. Each of his attacks was becoming more wild, leaving himself wider and wider open as he struggled to converse his energy for the assault and abandon his own defence. He felt pain erupt on his shoulder but still he kept fighting, each swing getting more and more erratic.
He was going to die. The knowledge hit him with a strange amount of lucidity, and yet he found he couldn't bring himself to care. If he could not complete his task, he deserved to die.
If he could not complete his task, his life would be devoid of every purpose he had known.
He lunged, putting all his remaining energy in a final strike, but off-balancing himself so badly that there would be no way to protect himself should his prey survive to retaliate.