In the piercingly cold downpour, Oscar swung his long sword and Hand Axe, his alcohol-numbed body suddenly swift beyond belief. His breathing stayed steady, as if he were at some grand ball, waltzing with the Demon, blood falling like discarded crimson gowns, constantly dripping down and merging into the standing water.
"This… this is what you call a writer?"
Buscalo roared. The drunk who had been clinking glasses with him just minutes ago was now fighting like a War God. He almost suspected he was seeing things, but judging from that damned familiar tone and expression, this really was Oscar.
"Those two things don't conflict, Buscalo."
Oscar was far from as relaxed as Buscalo thought. His attacks followed a rhythm, making use of openings to catch his breath and recover his strength. After all, he was no longer young, and his body had been poisoned by alcohol.
"Inspiration always runs dry. Writers have to go out and gather material!"
