He coughs up a clot of pink-ish blood, which falls to the floor with a wet plop. His eyes water as he stares down at it. He doesn’t understand what's happening, and when he tries to speak he gets another coughing fit that tears through his body like firecrackers in a crowded mall. He tries again to call out for someone but all that comes out is a small whimper.

The grass under him gets coated in a thick layer of his pink blood as he feels his arms give out and he collapses on the ground. What was happening? He doesn't want to get up, feeling he might vomit up more blood. But how long can he go on without help? There must be something that can be done. He can't die here. But he doesn't want to seem weak. Easy prey is the weakest of the pack, he needs to do this himself.

"Fuck me," he mutters, only to feel his throat burn at the feeling of talking. "Why the hell am I so weak... Get up, you're a king for fucks sake..."

The pure ground under him as he tries to pull himself away from the castle corrupts under his touch, like it was sizzling out the life of a once vibrant world. His body burns as he tries to pull it, multiple lacerations and bruises litter his body. His arms eventually burn too much to move them, forcing him to lie limp on the ground like a baby dear to a hungry bear. He desperately needs help, yet he's too stubborn to call for it, too stubborn to save his own life.