Aengus stood victorious, his breath slightly labored from the intense clash. His body bore a few minor wounds, but he knew they would heal in time.
In oposite, Valen knelt on the ground, defeated. His once-pristine appearance was marred by numerous cuts from blades infused with Hellfire, his flesh sizzling and leaving blackened, searing marks across his skin. The pain was etched deeply into his strained, contorted face.
Aengus felt no sympathy. Valen had been the one to attack first, intent on killing him. And in a battle between men, there was no right or wrong—only the victor was justified.
"You know," Aengus began, shaking his head as he approached the broken hero, "I really didn't want to kill you, Valen. But you've left me no choice." His voice was calm, though cold, as he neared Valen, who now lay extremely vulnerable.