The boy's blade had met flesh as he drove it into the demon's leg. Black blood bubbled from the wound and poured into the sand below. He could feel it warm and thick pour over his hands, and a smile flickered on his face. At once Morus felt elated, but a cold realization came over he when he turned his eyes up towards the warrior. He had not flinched even for a moment. He had taken the maiming in stride and now stared down with pitiless eyes towards the urchin, in much the way a disappointed father would. Morus tried in some desperation to remove his weapon, but found he had neither the strength nor stomach to yank it out in time.

The side of his head was met with a strong meaty fist that set him flailing about on the ground. He skidded across the sand with all the grace of a drunken ice skater before finally sprawling out several paces away. His head rung with a high pitched squeal, and he found it hard to breath right. His temple hurt with a fierce pain he hadn't felt in, a splitting headache that twists the guts and causes dry heaving. He lay motionless for a moment before attempting the lamentful rise to his hands and knees. Morus felt the trickle of blood from beneath his hairline, and clutched at his head with care. Matted and greasy locks of black hair were slick with red as he pawed them away from his wound. And though he tried with some considerable effort, he had an immense difficulty in opening his left eye, which sealed itself shut from either shock or fear.

But the most curious thing wasn't the blood or throbbing pain, but the mix of tears that welled in his eyes. He could see their droplets mix with red in the sand, clumping the earth beneath him. His voice was half a breathless huff and half a dismal whine that he couldn't seem to control. As the boy stared back at his opponent, he felt the dreadful truth of their mismatch wash over him.

”Stop it. You wanted this, you fool.” His thoughts were louder than the pulse in his head. ”You wanted to kneel at this altar of agony and accept the Eucharist of suffering. And your salvation is granted.” Still, amid the panic and pity that mixed within him, there was a fiery hate for the beast that just laid him low. He couldn't rationalize the feeling, or why his previous plans mattered so little now. All he could fathom was righting the indignity he'd just suffered.

Morus rose once more to a leaping pose, and summoned another burst of energy with a mewling scream. This time he aimed low, sweeping the ground into a furious miniature sandstorm that went right towards his opponent's leg and his knife still embedded in it. He rushed forward behind the blast, but failed to keep pace with the surge, hoping to land a punch behind the dusty wall.