The cursed sword fell down, its inescapable blade shining in the blinding light. Sunny was kneeling in front of Anvil, looking up — his black mask was baring its fangs in a fearsome snarl, but beneath it, he was pale and terrified.
In his eyes, the thin edge of Anvil's sword seemed as vast as the sky, obscuring the whole world. He was gruesomely wounded and weak, his hands trembling, fear consuming his dazed mind.
He could not move, he could not breathe.
There was no escape.
…There was no point in trying to escape, anyway.
He was defeated, and so, all he could do was surrender. He wanted to surrender.
'Ah…'
Had he not struggled enough? Every step he had taken was an arduous struggle. Every battle he had won was a torturous trial. He was tired, terrified, and in pain — just like he had always been.
It had all been so hard, so painful. So lonesome. He was erased from the world and forgotten by everyone...
He was lost.
