Freminet took deep shallow breaths, leaning against his claymore for balance. "..." blood tainted the floor and his porcelain skin, another man dead by his hands.

"I'm sorry," Freminet whispered in shame, grip tightening on the handle, "I'm so sorry..."

As silence remained, the steps of someone approaching came. His flight or fight response kicked in— he clutched the claymore handle tighter and striked.

But maybe, he should've looked up to see who he had hurt.

Freminet's eyes widened.