Xiang Yu watched in horror as the final disciple charged toward him, murder gleaming in the man's eyes. His body, already pushed beyond reasonable limits, refused to cooperate. The sword embedded in his shoulder scraped against bone with excruciating pain as he attempted to rise, each movement sending fresh waves of agony radiating through his torso.
The disciple's blade extended forward like the fang of some predatory beast hungry for blood. Xiang Yu found himself rooted to the spot, his wide eyes fixed on the approaching death, muscles frozen in shock rather than fear. The sword cut through air with an audible whistle, the pressure of its passage brushing against his face like the caress of a ghostly hand.
In that eternal moment between heartbeats, regret washed over him. Why had he ever agreed to leave the mountain? If some miracle spared him now, he swore he would never venture beyond those protected boundaries again. Not once. Not ever.
