And thus, Currway was experiencing something he hadn't felt in over two centuries.
The shadow of death.
His muscles were aching, his mana was depleting faster than it should. The constant assault, the endless pressure, the need to defend from all angles simultaneously was grinding him down.
He couldn't comprehend it. How could he be so tired? His mind struggled with the concept. How could he be so exhausted by these weaklings?
He couldn't even rest for a single moment. It was death by a thousand cuts made manifest. He was surrounded by a thousand madmen watching him closely, ready to throw away their lives just to harm him.
Currway turned his head, trying to track a warrior rushing in from his right side. His vision was blurry from all the assaults on his eyes, and yet he had to fight. He sidestepped the sword swing, and drove his claw through the warrior's torso.
