Amidst the raging flames, the emperor glanced behind the armory's wall. The bright orange and demonic green coating the scenery of devastation, the burning sections of his palace, and the stench of charred soil, melted metal, and sulfur struck him. Yet, he ignored his discomfort, focusing on the puppet.
His breath grew ragged as he saw his tense legs, clenched fist and beak tower amidst the ravages. Immediately, despair crept into the radiant hope that had fueled him, threatening to devour it.
"We only manage to take his right arm after all this," he muttered, his legs buckling.
He had really believed that Adam's clever plan and relentless assault would work. No, he wanted to believe it would, but... the reality was as obvious as the nose in the middle of the face.
