Sezel saw the serpent-like beasts closing in from all directions, through his blurry vision he noticed some of them moving towards the corpse of the Flesh Reaper.
He wanted to scream, to roar at them to get away from his prize.
I killed it. I broke myself into pieces for it. Get your slimy asses away from it—think you can freeload off my kill?
But all his fury came out as nothing more than a pathetic, rattling groan of breath.
He lay broken on the cold stone, his form battered and painted with blood. Damp, white hair fell across his face, obscuring one eye, the other eye glinting crimson under the sunlight from the top of the dome, where the dust-laden glass was.
"Tsk, I don't even have my katana," he rasped, the words scraping his throat.
The blade had slipped away during the fall with the Reaper… along with any illusion that he still looked human and not like "meat smeared into vaguely Sezel-shape."
