The chief had made his choice. His body was bruised, bloodied, and slowly giving way under Mark's relentless blows. Yet, he remained standing—barely. Every swing of Mark's blade forced him to stumble back, dodging death by mere inches. His breaths were ragged, his muscles quivering, his mind hazy with pain and regret.
'At least… they've gone to report to the boss,' he thought, clinging to that single thread of hope.
He was no warrior, not really. He had always operated from the shadows, issuing commands, pulling strings. Confrontation was never his strength. And now, under the crushing pressure of divine steel, that truth was laid bare.
Besides, it wasn't only Mark he feared.
Two others hadn't moved from the start. He knew they were capable, watching for the right moment to strike. That ever-present threat kept him from committing to any offense. He had been on the defensive from the beginning, and now, that decision had finally caught up to him.
