Onver's vision blurred as pain surged through his body, an overwhelming darkness threatening to consume him.
He struggled to maintain consciousness, his willpower fighting against the agony that threatened to engulf him.
Every breath was a battle, each heartbeat a reminder of the peril he faced.
In that desperate moment, he clung to a glimmer of hope, summoning every ounce of determination he had left.
The crowd watched in hushed anticipation, unaware of the internal struggle within Onver.
He didn't fly back or get propelled; instead, the sword hung in his abdomen, buried deep within.
The blood-tainted edge of the sword bathed in crimson fluids.
The fluid travelled on the sword and then dripped to the ground with the sound of the tip—tip, tip.
Each drop sounded like a reminder to Onver that the adversary he was facing was dangerous.