You’re losing. There is no way you are losing. Your men were already in the floor, dead, bloody, weak, unconscious. You’re the only left barely standing as you are kneeling on the floor, your suit, your body soaked in your own blood or perhaps mixed with the others. Molcov, your opponent’s master mind, his heavy, slow steps heading towards you. His suit, gloves, gaze dark as his aura. He stood in front of you with a small proud smile, his eyes looking down at you. How you hated being looked down upon, especially his, his dark eyes. He leaned, placed his gloved hand in your face, wiping the blood from your forehead. “Stop this.” You made low but firm, made it sound like you’re not begging, not sounding like you’re admitting your defeat. His head tilted, while you grasp for air. “I will.” he paused and lifted your chin. “If you marry me. I will stop this war.”