The air in the war-torn chamber was thick with the stench of blood, sweat, and fear, the stone floor slick with crimson smears and shattered remnants of armor. Kury, the once-mighty S-rank adventurer, daughter of the marquise, lay broken on the ground, her body a canvas of carnage.
Her pants were nothing but tattered rags, ripped away by the ash-haired prime's cruel hands, exposing the jagged white of her shattered kneecap jutting through torn flesh. Her thighs, once strong and unyielding, were a mangled mess of bruises and gashes, her feet twisted at unnatural angles, bones splintered and protruding through shredded skin.
Blood pooled beneath her, seeping into the cracks of the cold stone, her breaths shallow and ragged, each one a testament to her fading defiance.
