The myriad's sweat was dripping down from his forehead, the beating of his heartbeat rose considerably, and the fear of death overshadowed his already cloudy mind. The smell of blood and death played a lullaby through his ears and nose, eyes contracting in desperation, and the rapid inhale and exhale of air, grasping for every last vestige of remaining oxygen in the foul atmosphere.
Nevertheless, even though he was scared, he displayed bravery to its greatest peaks. He stayed and pointed his blade forward, firmly gripping the handle, never letting his muscles rest for even a single moment.
A ghoul came forward, about to attack him. The ghoul's eyes contracted, and its mouth was left agape as it charged in consideration of the forward blade, but its expectations were defied.
He moved the sword that was pointed in the front and moved it across in the air, twisting his wrist and pushing forward the sword's pommel, which he then slammed into the face of the ghoul in a pommel strike.
