The scent of steel, blood, and gore fills the surroundings, in contrast with the morning dew that came from outside the city. A sight of horror and despair, and the never-ending screams of death and the final breath of fallen myriads, struck a chord in those uninitiated to the reality of the world they were in.
The lone myriad, who killed the screaming giant, was now breathless as he collapsed from exhaustion. His face was splattered with crimson like tattoos, which was in reality the blood of his former kind and now foes.
His wide-eyed stare, mouth agape, and rapidly beating heart, hands shaking, as he realized he had just been saved from certain doom. He left an opening, rested when he should not have, in an open battlefield, against ghouls who lusted for flesh and blood, and quite possibly had more intelligence than them.
