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Gulp, another gulp followed by some coughing. The coughing was so violent that it made him fall off my tight grip and his thumped onto the gleaming marble floor. He lay there nearby my foot, face down. I stooped to pull him up, get him to talk but realize that he was already whispering something. He was whispering “Black blood” and had that fear in his eyes which is seen in the eyes of someone about to be impaled.
“Black Blood!” - The word echoes in my mind each time louder than the before – each time venomous than before. “How could that be possible?” I murmur as I feel this rage which I haven’t felt for decades, now.
Madness, pure savage madness, has crept up in my soul, my head, in the minutest particle of my being, my existence. My teeth gnash against each other as I stoop down to get hold of the neck of the spy and strangle him, crushing him against the floor - “How could that be true? Tell me you are drunk?”
“Master…K-keeper, I am n-not l-l-ying. I c-can’t forget those e—e-yes, M-master,” I push him back with force, in unadulterated angst. My head feels crushed, as if thumped with hundreds of hammer, at once. My veins throb as if it carries a pulsating wild River in it; waiting to burst out of my forehead and the forearm. I roared and thumbed my fist on the floor, sending shards of marble flying across me. The spy crawled back in horror; he thought he was going to die.
I turn my head away from him. Maybe, that would lessen my angst. I don’t want to look at anything which reminds me of those gloomy, bathed in blood times. Through the corner of my eye, I see the spy slowly slip away. I could hear his receding footsteps in the distance. I don’t know what came to me. Poor Spy. Had to suffer so much in a single day. My Rage and Those ghastly eyes. I feel my vein throbbing again with a new venom as I think about what the spy told me.
Demon Eyes. The orbs from Hell. Cobra Eyes. Call it what one may but nothing justifies the stench of blood they oozed and the fear which they struck in the onlooker’s heart. Those dark, pit-less maroon eyeballs. How could I forget them; how could anybody forget them? Death danced in them every moment. But wasn’t he dead?
Wasn’t Queizan, the most revered and most brutal of leaders of Necromancer Army, dead for a decade now?
“I killed him,” I murmur, “I killed him in the battle of Sculptarian with the war-scythe of the warlord Asgus, himself. How could he not die? ” A renewed wraith enters my body and I shiver in angst like a tree in the strongest of winds.
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