His clear mind was chaotic, the surprise move, the world turning around as losing balance, his vision obstructed to tangling on the sorry excuse of a cape, that he once again find himself, filled him with confusion and frustration, the pain when he hit the ground just aggravate his mental state.

Against the odds what caused this unexpected result was exactly the capes. At the time Mordread started to run, his thin cape following is sudden movements flown high instead of just trail behind him. That in turn, throw off his plan by a couple of seconds that he needed, by the swordsmen grabbing his too soon formed tail, even though that was exactly what he was waiting, but he found his blood hand was still struggling with the simple knot at his, now strangled, neck and the cold feeling on his right hand. So instead of fight against the tide, he gave up and let the swordsmen pull him, in fact, he even jumped back.

As the grab gave a window between halt and throw, so he jumped back as the swordsmen used all his power to pull, the crying of the torn cape was heard together with the confusion growl of the swordsmen. The lack of the expected resistance throw him off balance, and Mordread body ended hitting him instead. That was the moment for the right counter-attack, the swordsmen were both out of balance and stupefied, even his grip on the sword wasn’t as firm as before, however everything was too rushed, and so when Mordread hit the ground he made a muffled scream in pain, because of his sudden lack of air.

There wasn’t time to change position in mid-air, or to borrow the moment to strike him like he or a number of actions that if given another chance he would have liked to try. In fact, because the pole was slight stuck on the ground, when he was pulled it disturbed any resemblance of control and making him fall slightly sideways, blocking his right hand under his body. It wasn’t the scraping feeling of the small pebbles on the skin, wasn’t the lack of air on his lungs or the reopening of the big wound on his chest. When the body hit the ground feel as if he was have been gouged out his eyes, and the cold air of night that had hit his face, made him doubt for a second if it hadn’t really lost the eye.

In the end, the first to recuperate was the swordsmen, brought back by Mordread moaning, on his right hand the poorly made red cape was torn but not enough to stray him out of his grasp. What was a sure kill move just reverted back to the start, and so he raised his blue sword delivered a stab, right for the heart.

The sword fell, blood gushed but he only managed to make a flesh wound on the deltoids, as he trashed in the ground using his bones as shield, with a frown the swordsmen tried to expand the wound with pressing it down, but in that position he couldn’t transmit much power and ended in a blood-filled but not aside from the first stab not very deep, but was enough to turn him back to the tilted position from before as the rock he was over wouldn’t permit him to face him. When the new scream of anger and pain was heard, his frown soon faded in favor of a devilish smile.

As he was turned again by the sword, hitting the wall, his sight was returned to him as he wasn’t tangled on the cape, looking for the next strike. However, there was a brief moment of respite as the swordsmen started to grin at his work. All frustration hit a peak with this and was rapidly filling him with anger, but his clear head keeps things straight and saw an opportunity to escape, and tried to roll away from him.

However the swordsmen weren't worried in the least, he kicked the back of Mordread and just gave a few steps while the cape twisted as a rope in his hand as he watched in glee his prey rolling in the dirt. When the few was enough stomped over him, pinning Mordread down, and hitting the left arm he get exactly on the previous wound and seen to hesitate when he heard the painful gasp, but as if waiting for the cue when his gaze struck and locked onto Mordread hateful gaze he slowly twisted his boot on his wound, expanding the suffering, his face haven’t changed the same smile, but somehow looked more twisted by the second he prolonged the twist.

Mordread rapid breathing became harder and his vision would blurry slight in that moment or at least what remained of it, everything in his body was aching in pain and anger. He would suspend other 2 strikes before he manages to get his vision back, just at time of seeing the menacing now crimson sword that just was pulled out from stab, and tried to once again roll away from it, but needless to say the sword hit true and now deeper than ever, the kick wasn’t even necessary, to stop him on his track, the pressure of the metal boot wasn’t stable but no matter how he struggled he just played around and put him in position for the next strike and as if to mark the beat he would twist again the wound, both to stop any escape attempt and get a regain a foothold.

As each new struggle against his lethal attacks, let rock debris and dirty that entered before grind between his flesh, torn further the cuts that just gained. However, stop the struggle would mean give up and the growing anger couldn’t accept that in special that each time Mordread couldn’t hold anymore and released an angsting cry his respiration became erratic just to confirm that in Mordread mind that he was laughing at his misery.

He could almost feel the breeze on the bones of his back as two big and messy cuts are slowing bleeding away, but there was always a new pain to keep his mind busy. Another strike now deflected by a rib bone, but the feeling of the blade try to sculpt on then was enough to lose any voice, the air couldn’t get out, the muscles are all contracted, was when he heard his voice again.

“˥masdЭТ ida ˙ےئلreО ɹntk ےکОɹ˥∀! ਰਦ…”

He couldn’t understand, but the tone was the same serious and accusatory, but that wasn’t what was on Mordread mind but the internally screaming:

'THIS….BASTARD!...I’M SURE HE IS ENJOYING HIMSELF NOW'

He wanted to tell him but the problem in breathing was already turned such wish secondary, and as the feeling of impotency was making him tremble, didn’t matter what was the reason he was doing this because in Mordread mind was dead set that the swordsmen were a motherless sadist. The thought of just forget the useless metal pole and just tried to bite him or anything was by each wave of pain a more reasonable plan. He trembled as tried to push away this internal wrath, saying to himself:

'ke-keep the cle-clear mind,hurmm…. don’t let lose everything… keep moving… keep… arrgg.. cle-ar, clear, clear mi-'

He indeed had some success with his mantra, but his clear mind would make each slice, each inch of the cold blade tear the flesh and lacerate his bones.

The last strike, for example, the swordsmen changed his strategy and didn’t press the arm anymore but his head on the ground, pressing the wound on his eye on the ground and before he could do anything the vicious strike hit between the radio and plasma right in the gap of the forearm bones, while aiming to pierce the belly, the nerves of and tendons of the left arm was brutally damaged and the belly was already drawing blood.

In that instant that the struggle paid off and instead of letting him keep going forward, Mordread used all his strength and pulled his arm away, forcing him to go back, but at the price of losing a great part of his left arm movement, and a deep cut beside the belly. But, it hasn’t stopped here, as he was being hacked and slashed in pieces, he wanted to use the weakened flesh on the shoulder in conjunction with the extra blood pouring from each twist so he could lose it the foothold. However now that his feet were on his face, was easier to twist his head away and have been long blooded enough.

Getting away was one thing, however, the cape was still in his hands, and his sudden arm movement wasn’t enough to somehow trap and rob his weapon away. The swordsman instinctively tried to hold on something, and the cape he was holding was a good candidate as any. Mordread that barely got up almost lost everything with the quick pull, but the constant tears and this last one make it weaker than it should, the swordmen in reflex tried a long attack, that was stopped by the coiled metal he still holding on the right hand, now covered by the dirty and his blood still dripping.

Trying to capitalize on the failed attack, Mordread twists his whole body in order to make his weapon a long metal pole at least the double size than the blue short sword, travel over the cape leash in an almost 360º arc. In his anger fueled logic, the swordsmen right hand still holding the cape, unprotected, that he would still hold because there still as a useful cape leash and using all the muscle and borrowing the centrifugal force he was all boosted as the feeling of the attack increase in his hand, he could almost feel that there was a special power building up on his long-winded attack.

That was easily blocked, no special power was used, no special technique, the most basic block. His attack, in fact, has indeed surprised the swordsmen as how weak it was, and he knows that better than anyone how he was wide open that time and was worried that such strange attack might hold some greater power. In fact, if he wasn’t indeed worried about the cape leash he might have deflected or go for a counter.

However the language barrier hasn't stopped Mordread on realizing all this, the whole set of expressions on his face, was like he was a bad actor. On another hand, this was lesser matter, all left behind in favor of his rage that consumed him. Each scene replayed in loop in his head, the time he noticed him wasn’t as dangerous he thought, when he almost lost his life, the time he had to keep to fight to try to take him seriously, as wounds spread over his body; the face when his faint move worked, tearing his face and eye; his face filled with ridiculous that was mocking him, as he tried to keep the blood inside his body; the smile of having him at his feet; and the torture that followed as he played around with him, cutting, stabbing, twisting, scraping his dignity away humiliating; and now his long-awaited “comeback” was blocked so easy, not by some bad luck, not by some special power but a simple block that by itself seen to be the crystallization of the past experience.

His eyelid left was trembling, his eyes red, his teeth showing, his expression twisted, and instead of retreat to a new attack, he keeping pressing the coiled metal locking swords with the swordsmen, however, his strength hasn't raised because of it and was leisure keeping up. Was when the peak was reached and the clear mind couldn’t hope to control it, as it was deep into the anger too, all kinds of insults swarmed his mind without an outlet when his mouth started to open, it broke open.

Sudden the force was lifted and the swordsmen that used the opportunity to deflect the long metal pole and got a free hit, however, he looked at Mordread face and the maniacal anger was gone and now his face is staring at him with big eyes and emotionless face, while the metal pipe was easily pushed away, the swordsmen rushed in a stab right through the belly, in order to get another swallow wound by the bones. There was a delay on his prey reaction from the strange body tear his inside, took about a second from his deadpan expression to change to the wincing pain and swift retreat, or at least while still attached to the cape.

In a rare moment of the break on the attacks, the air was heavy with killing intent was but 3 seconds, each time he breath faster, but in the adrenaline pumped bodies was enough for the rush as a madman. Mordread could see where he ended, and was just after the broken column, behind the swordsmen there was a mirage-like view of a reflection of water in the middle of the dark right side of the room, books pages torn flying with the fire still burn in them. The distant sound of an eagle could be heard behind him. However was dubious if Mordread noticed any of it, as the madding wrath was, the hand was pressing the newly made wound, as the other was tight holding the coiling pole, as the almost torn cape was creating a rope to the left swordsmen hand, while the other hold the one hand and the sword that seen to have lost it original blue in favor a dark red with a tint of purple as the thick blood dripped from it. Their gazes locked, was his smirk deepening that break the thin balance Mordread screamed his frustration away and delivered a flurry of attacks.

There was, he only bashed the pole away, in a loose sword like grip. Amateurs attacks, lead only by instinct and the desire to hit faster and stronger, each movement that stretched many of the torn muscles and the response of cut tendons, and so each attack was heavier both for it wilder as for it opponent, reflected only by the higher volume of his battle cry.

The swordsmen were in fact troubled by his enemy, not for his battle powers by itself, but its tenacity and as an experienced man, he knows about the corned rat tale and the difficulty of a decisive strike was his greatest problem. But this man now was just all he wanted, making great wasteful moves, often see on the militia, and wide and easy to block attacks was the what he needed to wrap it nicely. He wasn’t in no hurry to go for a counter attack, as is attacks looked faster and heavier, in fact, had become inconsistent and the body riddled with holes would just accelerate, each messy moves that he poured his everything and his eyes red in hatred, fear, and confusion was all he needed to see.

Unknow for both of them what his remaining eye was getting filled with each failed attack wasn’t fear by itself but the memory of the previous low points and a sickening disappointment, but such deep thoughts aren’t relevant Mordread Mind was busy maintaining his crazy blood face and fury of attacks, trying to get to him, but some occasional small push and block bought enough time for them to travel most of the visible part of the room in twisted circle, marked each attack by a splash of Mordread blood around, as the body of mordread was giving more and more sight of wearing down.

When Mordread advanced too early the defensive swordsmen decide to go for the neck, he now not just smirked but smiled like the sun and not forgetting his well-known secret weapon. However, instead of pushing away his face, Mordread put his skull forward, with just an eye left. Making a terrible cut that torn his cheeks enough for his teeth are showing, that earned an incredible scream, as much nervous are in crazy response. Now they separate once again, but even if the swordsmen is a little tired, the other is utter exhausted, with a prominent new mark on his face, but as still with the will to keep attacking, with weaker and slower attacks, the mouth is wide open try to swallow the air around.

And so wasn’t a surprise that not much after, Mordread fall to the ground on his knees in the middle of another wide attack. The reason lies on the left foot is bloody from walking on rubble and wreckage, had stuck into a crevice. The swordsmen had a little regret on his expression as the cape lash block the view because is holding it high, but was very momentary as he the end of this drawn-out battle would come to an end, thinking on this his smirk that in fact haven’t changed from the start of the battle, but now is even showing the white teeth. The fear and despair hit the face of Mordread like lighting, and his unresponsive body seen to have great difficulty to get out of the situation, even trying to hold on the lash to get up.

The swordsman saw the perfect chance to literally kill 2 birds with 1 stone, lowering the cape he could enjoy the view while the sudden lower the height of the lash, make Mordread that was bare holing on it almost fall. Now he just made a minor twist my arm around it, he quickly cut the distance short between them.