Alazar was wrong. He had underestimated the brat.
If only he hadn't blown out the candle and tried to use the darkness to his advantage, the fight might have ended differently.
He knew the brat could fight with nothing but his senses—that was the very reason he had escaped the bunker in the first place.
He wasn't a tool to lose his life because of his pride. He values his life over everything else, even if it meant to run away from a kid.
Now, disguised as a grey-haired man, he was running aimlessly through the night. Blood still dripped from his wounds, his leg shook with every step, and his knee was half-useless. Cuts marked his body, and a deep gash tore across his shoulder.
Alazar's way of fighting had always been the same—prey on the weak, break them with dirty tricks, then strike when they were helpless. Against stronger foes, he never bothered. Better to run than die.
He would rather be called a coward than a corpse.
