Kingsley's body collapsed against a mountain, then tore straight through it as though it were nothing more than brittle clay, then crashed violently into another, then upon a hill, before finally coming to a brutal stop at the base of yet another mountain, the peak trembling and shaking violently from the residual force as Kingsley's body struck there with overwhelming momentum.
Kingsley didn't know the amount of blood he had lost at this point, nor could he comprehend the amount of time he had spent injured and regenerating in an endless, torturous cycle. He had been torn to pieces and shredded apart, then stitched back together as though reality itself rejected the damage, as though it had never happened at all, as though his suffering had been erased and rewritten over and over again.
