But some individuals can never be struck down by such things. At last, the man's large hand released the handlebar to grasp the hilt of his sword.
In the very eye of the storm, there was a sudden clarity and purity...
A refugee, squeezed and knocked over in the flight, instinctively looked back only to meet the terrifying face of a Heretic and the bloody cleaver chopping towards him.
"No!"
The man was petrified. How "powerful" he had seemed just moments ago when he was cursing the loudest, spitting all sorts of vile words.
The moment he threw the stone, he was a Brave, he was the leader, relishing the "reverent" gazes of those around him.
But now, he didn't even have the courage to stand up and run, just instinctively shutting his eyes, his body trembling as he waited for death.
CLANG! Metal struck metal.
When he opened his eyes, he saw a broad, broken sword shielding him. He could even make out the mottled marks on the blade, and the person holding the sword was...
