The lone myriad steeled himself; he did his best to breathe in a stable manner, even though exhaustion was already taking a toll on his body. If it had not been for the sudden surge of energy and emotions, he would be lying dead on the ground. He tightly gripped his sword until the palms of his hands turned white.
The drops of sweat continuously increased, as if there were a shower coming down on his body. The smell of a mix of blood and steel emanated from his sword. His shaking body was about to give up; despite all that, he held on. He gritted his teeth, never allowing himself to lose sight of what was in front of him.
Rage and anger welled up within him, constricting the blood vessels, resulting in a tightness felt in his chest, which was all the more reason that made it hard for him to breathe. It was painful as calluses started to form on both of his hands and pale skin.
