The screeching of metal shred the silent atmosphere. Flames plucked and singed exposed hair strands and epidermis. Impressive magic exchanged in conjunction with arrows whizzing through the air. Battle cries bellowed from warriors. Slick blades sunk into the soft, meaty flesh of their victims. Crimson substance and bile gutted the once-majestic monastery. The theatre of death filled up with keening and caterwauling sounds as the sodden earth became ichor.
She ran has hard as she could. Those navy hues targeted the fearsome blue opponent. An abrupt break, dirt sprayed from her toes digging into the ground. Sweat poured forth from its pores once she flew into the air. Gold rays emanated from the relic; the relic intensified its brightness above her head. Time had slowed for the fighters.
Byleth slammed her sword down with all of her weight. Their weapons came into contact. Sparks scattered between the two once the lance posed horizontally. Immense pressure violently shook their arms as the young man roared.
Molten-red blood spurted from her shoulder shortly afterward. An arrowhead seared through her thick overcoat and comfortably settled into her stiff flesh. She grimaced. This fractured their connection.
The Saber instantly hopped backward and tore the bloody foreigner out in a swift motion. The time spent on removing the arrow was less than a second. However, that was a grave mistake.
She sharply gasped, profound 'CRACK' reverberated throughout her frontal body. Numerous shattered parts of her skeletal system threatened to pull her consciousness into the depths of an abyss; the explosions of pain wracked her toned body with a deep, torturous ache.
Byleth sunk to her knees, both hands grasping ahold of the Sword of Creator for support. Blood seeped through the fabrics and out of her chest plate, its leakage ever more apparent from the corner of her cracked lips. She could barely breathe. None of her bones and sinews would cooperate, their defiance leading her down to a road full of misery and despair.
Byleth’s weary hues slowly gazed upward to her opponent. The slithering sound of the sword being unsheathed frightened her, its electricity crackled and snapped in preparation for what is to come. Tears prickled from her lacrimal glands. Byleth closed her lips and dryly swallowed. Ironic how a powerful Servant like her would tremble from fear. Out of thousands of battles she had encountered, none held up to this very moment. Had she been **** or ****, she would have sung praises for the victor.
She lowered her head under the somber orange sky. The person in question raised their blade, and Byleth whispered,
“****, I’m sorry.”