Left Garrison can clearly feel the ebb of life, like a stream flowing out from all his wounds, causing this once-vibrant body to begin withering.
He is like a doll emptied of stuffing, skin tightly clinging to the bones, gaunt like a spirit that has clawed its way out of a grave.
Death permeates, the body turns crimson, covered in burns from blood corrosion, patch after patch, not a single area intact, as if skinned alive.
"It's different..."
Left Garrison continued the whisper, like some kind of prayer or vow.
Dragging his weary body, his steps were first sluggish, then progressively faster.
Facing blades, guns, swords, and spears without pressure, perhaps even enjoying it, so much that if Left Garrison had any strength left, he might have laughed.
His life was inherently a meaningless void, and now this meaningless life is striving to create meaning.
