...Or victory?
There was a spectrum of emotions flooding through his mind as he sat in the field that stunk of death, finding crimson having painted portions of the foliage.
He didn't know the man very long, nor did he share many nice moments with him, but he still felt grief and lamentation–he instantly blamed himself. It was due to his desire to become an adventurer that this person was sent on this journey with him, and why that person was now dead.
Or, so he thought.
Wriggle. Wriggle.
"--" He looked up with a perplexed expression.
The pieces of the dark-skinned man that were on the grass began to convulse, crawling across the soil as it seemed as if they were reattaching to the body of Vandread.
It was a disgusting, confusing, inexplicable sight before his eyes, but he found himself experiencing some glimmer of hope.
There were black threads that sprouted from the flesh of the man, connecting the various pieces of his scattered body and reassembling himself whole once again.