Lityerses' hair was slightly matted, stuck together with sweat reminiscent of when he lived with his father, Midas, in their mansion in Nebraska. It seems as if he was frozen in time—Was that a side effect from being dead and then revived after so long?

Crosshatching bundles of collagen etching out the scars on his face glinted under the streaming sunlight from the skylight above the arena. Calloused fingertips dug into the hilt of the weapon, rendered deadly in his hands. His lips drew into a thin line of suppressed emotions that tumbled, one over the other, in his eyes.

Tragic. Hollow. Beautiful.

“I win.”

He stood with a boot planted on your chest and the tip of his golden sword to your throat. You laid on the floor of the practice arena, sweat caking flakes of gravel to your forehead. He blinked like he wasn't fazed at all after knocking you to the ground in all but 2 moves.