Chapter 47: Despair
"Damn it!" Sollivan cursed and quickly gave orders to Noctis, who had previously fled and hidden behind the stone gate. Within seconds, the dust cloud settled, revealing the human figure more clearly—it was Sven, or rather, what remained of him. His left arm had been severed, and what was left of it had turned to charred flesh. His hair and face were burned, his skin peeling away. His clothes had fused with his flesh, becoming part of him. Yet his right hand was relatively intact, and his lower body hadn’t suffered severe damage. Around him lay several charred and brutally torn corpses.
Sven looked at Sollivan with an unreadable expression—his facial features were so distorted he could no longer form normal expressions. He opened his mouth and exhaled a breath of black smoke, then raised his uninjured hand and pointed at Sollivan with bloodshot eyes leaking blood.
"You."
His words were spoken with unprecedented savagery, as if he were no longer an ordinary human. His body trembled, and he gnashed his teeth in extreme fury. Clearly, he was no longer in full control of his mind. Suddenly, a faint white mist enveloped him, and miraculously, his burned skin began to regenerate at a barely noticeable pace—though it was so slow that it would take hours just to heal the superficial wounds, let alone the severe deformities and burns covering the rest of his body.
’He’s breaking through—just what I needed.’ Sollivan cursed his bad luck when he realized Sven was advancing to the second stage, hence the faint Auraxis energy mist surrounding him. But Sven didn’t stand still in satisfaction. Like a frenzied beast that had lost its humanity, he charged at Sollivan madly. Unlike Roland, the seasoned and experienced soldier who had kept his composure even after being caught in the explosion, Sven had lost control, half-conscious from the unbearable pain ravaging his body—his movements were feral.
In one second, he was in front of Sollivan, who tried to retreat in his wheelchair—but his movements were pitifully slow, like a worm crawling on the ground.
Sollivan’s mental strength was considerable, so he saw the attack coming clearly, as if in slow motion. His sharp senses screamed in terror, warning him of imminent death. He looked behind Sven, where the black skeleton was sprinting toward them—but it was too far away. It wouldn’t reach them in time.
’Is this the end? How ironic.’ Sollivan’s mind cleared, and his emotions calmed. He didn’t panic or resist futilely. He had long prepared himself for a moment like this—in truth, at some point, he had already seen himself as a dead man walking.
But his calm lasted only a moment before giving way to terror. His chest tightened—he didn’t want to die. All the nonsense and convictions he had once believed in vanished, and he screamed involuntarily:
"No, stop!"
But it was useless. Sven reached him and threw a punch. Suddenly, a small hand intercepted the devastating blow—Devlin had appeared in front of him out of nowhere.
CRACK!