Morne walked slowly, each step abnormally heavy. He supported his body almost entirely with the seemingly ordinary Longsword in his hand.
His already simple clothes were now tattered beyond recognition, the edges of a deep claw mark on his chest crusted with dark red blood.
His gray-white hair, withered and messy from the Curse's influence, clung to his sweat-soaked forehead.
His face was drained of all color. Each breath was short and strained, as if it took all his strength just to inhale.
His left arm hung limply at his side, a grisly wound stretching from his shoulder to his elbow.
Though hastily bandaged, blood still seeped out, soaking the cloth and dripping from his fingertips to stain the scorched ground with dark patches.
But the most startling thing was what he dragged behind him...
Balot's massive body was being dragged along, carving a wide, deep trench in the scorched earth like a tattered sack.
