Malachi collapsed to his knees mere minutes after escaping Amon's deathly gaze. The burns searing his flesh flared with renewed agony, but it was not pain that twisted his stomach—it was revulsion. He doubled over, vomiting not from injury, but from disbelief and bitter humiliation.
Malachi, the Bone Sword. Apostle of Subservience. Once hailed as one of the top three swordsmen in the world—a man whose reputation alone could break the will of lesser warriors. Yet he had fallen to a junior's blade.
Not just any junior—a boy barely past twenty. He was over three times Amon's age, a veteran forged through decades of bloodshed and battle, yet he had been forced into retreat. The shame festered like an open wound.
Malachi was disgusted—disgusted by his weakness, his failure, and above all, by the terrifying brilliance of the boy who had bested him.
But the words from Amon's mouth still lingered in his mind.
"You're a Demon, not a human."
