But Henry moved faster, his battle-axe crashing down hard on the head of the cavalryman's warhorse. The animal's skull buckled under the tremendous force, shattering into pieces in an instant.
The cavalryman was pinned beneath the warhorse's corpse, unable to move. Henry stomped on his chest. It felt as if there were no ribs, like stepping on mud, and his foot sank right in.
Henry stood amidst the bodies of men and horses, drenched in fresh blood. It felt as if the very sky had turned red...
Henry stood on the blood-soaked battlefield, his breathing heavy. Every breath seemed to draw in strength and expel fatigue.
His muscles tensed in the heat of battle, then relaxed in its aftermath. This cycle filled him with an unprecedented vitality.
His body seemed to have found a rhythm in combat; swinging his battle-axe, clashing with his foes—it all made him feel stronger.
He felt his blood boiling, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest, spurring him on.
