Amon sat in the darkness. The world outside the tree felt distant now, muted, as if separated by an invisible wall.
Inside the hollow trunk, silence pressed in from every direction, thick and suffocating. Only the faint sound of his own breathing reminded him that he was still alive.
In front of him, laid carefully on the cold ground, were all the things he had left. His dark eyes observed them.
His sword rested at the center, its blade stained with dried blood. Beside it lay the hatchet, its edge chipped but deadly, shadows still faintly clinging to it as if unwilling to leave.
Two daggers were placed near it. Light, balanced, meant for quick kills. A normal knife lay slightly apart, worn and simple, but reliable.
To the side were three grenades. Demon-made. Heavy. Dangerous. He had used them while running away from the demon base. He remembered throwing them at tents, and how they caused huge explosions. He had kept a few with him for the future.
