But the axe swung at the shattering organ parts; reducing them in interchanged powders and liquids the moment he struck them. Processing through, he saw himself outside himself momentarily between falling blood powders, falling pustules of the flesh of fake-soul operated demon organ bags.

He saw them falling in all their multicolours; the reds and greys and purples of the blood powders; the greens and the shocking reds – the piss yellows of the various falling gallbladders, spleens, and shooting and dispersing organ pustules.

They were shooting organ pustules, that his axe inevitably ruptured swinging into. – The more his axe swung.

The more his axe swung. He shattered shoulder parts; he shattered limbs. Falling everywhere; rolling his massive frame out the way of the balls of puss that they shot out mouths and orifices at him that – combined with the powdered blood exploded weird electric chemical reactions mid-air.

He turned, side-kicked off a corridor-panel, jumped over himself, backward [seen out; glanced, helped; half-directed, even only half-aware – unaware – even able to see above himself momentarily in another perspective. The Eye of the Cyclops glanced this perspective directly inside him.]

Falling balls of puss ruptured bile. The King turned his axe the other way in the demon back of him, [seen by the Cyclops.] He reversed out his axe from shattering through a spleen and accompanying bile bag. – Powders scattered out the dry eyes of the demons; but avoided in time the puss balls fell to the earth un-burst, unshattered. [only action and vision in a battle seen this way, completely unthinking; merely reacting/merely having that advantage of this perspective behind. A gift from the Cyclops he was psychologically incapable of recognising the existence of.]

Fighting across the grids that fell upon the planes before him, interpreting out moves ahead/moves behind; demons spat puss-filled organ balls at him.

Avoiding these, he rolled, leaping back off the grids with a strength his body manufactured live-currently from a strength whose source was pain.

[aided by the Cyclops, the last alive, who had not foregone, or – perhaps he was incapable at this point of seeing reality as anything other than a field of intentional perspectives he put there all for the advantage of/at the service of/his master]

Glancing through shattering blood and bile pustules, losing count of where he was; losing count of how many he'd even despatched into non-existence and all sense of perspective.

This King – was merely the axe, merely his pain, merely his lack of self – merely his desperate plea that they kill him; or the battle never end.

Better it –

Never end; better this never cease, better – he – a demon clasped his neck behind, vice-crushing it, beneath mountains of pressure – back behind he/the King in Grids and Mind ripped the demon's face off, turned, and rammed it – in his throat.

Really ramming it in there/

releasing his neck – the dirt-cunt hacked up and out his throat his own face he was involuntarily swallowing. – The King in Grids and Mind was on him; axe through his skull shattered in the bloody pustules and powders all over, rolling again out the way before they burst and combined in smears of electric chemical reaction explosions.