——
Even
A truly ideal father would not cut down his own child for the reason that the child "didn't seem likely to grow up as desired."
That single-minded, unyielding aberration devoid of anything resembling paternal love — that was the entirety of why Rowan had killed Cecilus's brothers while they were still infants.
A swordsman who harbored the genuine intent to trample over anything and anyone for the sake of reaching the "Heavenly Sword" — Rowan Segmunt was nothing more, and nothing less, than that.
Rowan, who would likely be considered one of the world's foremost failed fathers upon surveying the whole of it. Cecilus, born as the son of a father who could inspire neither respect nor familial affection, sincerely believed himself to be fortunate.
——The aspiration Rowan harbored for the "Heavenly Sword" was one that Cecilus shared.
That attempt to reach the invisible heights beyond the clouds, walking on foot — it was not something achievable while glancing sideways or taking detours.
If he had been raised in a proper, historically prestigious household, or in a family too meek to even commit a robbery for a meal, there would have been no guarantee that Cecilus's wish to reach the "Heavenly Sword" wouldn't have been tainted by impurities.
That was precisely why he needed to be Rowan Segmunt.
He cut down every blood relation that could become a hindrance, unflinchingly removed all obstacles to mastering the way of the sword with an unwavering resolve, and prepared life-threatening ordeals for his son one after another — treating his own child's life as a secondary concern.
Rowan poured, without reservation, that pure and unalloyed ferocity devoted to the sword into Cecilus.
Therefore, Cecilus thought this: ——Being born as Rowan's son meant he, too, possessed it.
△▼△▼△▼△ The flash of the "Dream Sword," drawn from the scabbard of dreams and sent racing through the sky of reality —.
That flash, which one could imagine might even trigger the collapse of the world itself, cleaved head-on through a burst of light, then delivered its point to the beautiful girl who held a blue flame in one eye and shed tears of blood — Alakia.
Bearing that transcendent strike, the slender body of the girl — Alakia — was not split in two along with her life.
Because this demon sword, forged by principles not of this world, refused to let even the result of its cuts conform to common sense.
——"Stone Mass"
One of the Four Great beings, the Great Spirit supporting the land of the Volakian Empire.
Even though Cecilus could intuitively grasp that what he had subdued with the "Dream Sword" Masayume was Alakia and yet not Alakia — that it was a superexistence that had nearly overwritten her very existence — he had no way of knowing its true identity.
Then again, even if he had known, Cecilus's resolve and actions would not have changed one bit.
Even if he knew that destroying Muspel would cause the Empire's land to collapse along with the Great Spirit, Cecilus swinging the "Dream Sword" was inevitable.
Prioritizing the heroine's existence over the Empire's land was a perfectly natural judgment for a star actor.
From the very start, there was no script in which something Cecilus believed to be right and carried out could lead to a bad ending.
Therefore —, "————"
Alakia, who had been unable to contain the power she had absorbed, was on the verge of bursting.
Before Cecilus, who had subdued that overwhelming power threatening her using the "Dream Sword," the countless bands of light that had surrounded Alakia — those diamond-hard bands — transformed into dazzling particles and dissolved into the crimson capital.
Amidst the swirling storm of light particles, as Alakia slowly descended, Cecilus sheathed the "Dream Sword" in the scabbard that had appeared at his waist as if by a dream, and reached out his hand.
She was a wretched sight. Her entire body bore numerous lacerations, her blood-soaked kimono torn and frayed, its design having veered far beyond what one might call "combat attire."
Yet, in stark contrast to that pitiable appearance, there was not a trace of shadow in the eyes of Cecilus as he caught Alakia in his arms.
"————"
Limp and unconscious, she lay with both eyes closed, wearing the death-like expression of someone in deep sleep.
He could tell from the feel of her that she was not actually dead, so there was no need to panic. He simply gave a quiet, exasperated shrug.
"You really are a handful, Anya."
Of the memories that had dimly resurfaced during the battle, the majority had been conversations from the twilight hours with the friend who had shrunk "Before Cecilus" down into "After Cecilus." But among the rest — the memories excluding that — she was the one who had left the most footprints.
Celicus, acclaimed by others and himself alike as someone incapable of looking after anyone. For someone like that to be made to do such enormous follow-up work, she was beyond troublesome.
Perhaps it would not be an exaggeration to say she was the most high-maintenance person in the entire Empire.
"…So it's safe to say things are settled now, yeah?"
A somewhat tense voice called out to Cecilus's back as he held Alakia.
Approaching with footsteps heavy on guard was Al, no less tattered than Cecilus himself from the aftermath of the battle.
Having survived the climactic battle at the summit without being reduced to cinders, and having even tossed his weapon to Cecilus for the final moment — the supporting role was spot-on. This man truly understood the meaning of a grand stage.
"You put on quite the understated performance, Al-san. That moment you read my intentions and threw the weapon in — I thought that was seriously top marks."
"What marks? My approval rating of you? If so, I genuinely could not care less."
He dropped his shoulders with exaggerated weariness, then "More importantly," Al looked toward Alakia. Through his iron helmet, his gaze was timorous and hesitant.
"Miss Alakia is…"
"She's not dead. Quite the opposite, actually — she made me go absolutely wild, tearing through two, even three layers beyond my limits, all to settle things without killing her. Something as crude as killing to stop her? Absolutely not! The Segmunt way is to defy vulgar expectations while meeting the highest standards."
"…As long as you didn't kill her, I'm not gonna have a problem with how you settled it."
Al straightened up and puffed out his chest as he replied, and Cecilus sighed while fiddling with the metal fittings on his helmet.
Cecilus understood Al's concern, of course. The question was whether the risk of keeping Alakia alive was worth trading against the security of having killed her.
However —, "If it's that sort of complicated, tedious discussion you're after, you'll have to take it up with some clever, frowning-looking person elsewhere — I won't be there. My answer is exactly as you can see, Al-san."
"…I knew from the start that trying to get you to persuade, debate, argue — it was all reckless, impossible, and insane, all three at once. You can't take responsibility for that young lady, can you?"
"It seems she had always intended to, though. From the moment she first defeated Anya, she seems to have been carrying that responsibility already."
Answering with that characteristically airy, detached feeling — as though it were someone else's problem even though it concerned him directly — Cecilus looked down at Alakia's sleeping face in his arms and saw overlaid upon it a younger version of her.
Like the friend he had parted from in the twilight, it must have been a phantom born of a sufficiently long association. He really ought to stop hammering at that memory that he dwelled on too much, that focused too much on bittersweet developments.
"But before I delve into that episode, it seems I need to fulfill some other responsibility of mine first."
"Hm?"
Cecilus murmured this offhandedly, and Al's voice rose in surprise. But Cecilus did not answer with words — instead, he simply turned his gaze elsewhere as his response.
From the aftermath of the battle with Alakia, buildings, streets, everything had melted — the Imperial Capital was a hellscape dyed red. Standing amid that sight, in a form befitting the scene, was a figure of pure ferocity.
"————"
The blue-haired man, wreathed in undying flames across his entire body.
His scorched, blackened skin concealed one of his distinguishing features, but his brilliantly shining golden eyes made it instantly clear to all that this man was a revenant.
And to Cecilus, they communicated a single fact more significant than anything else.
"Oh my, oh my, oh my — and here I thought someone was running over here at full speed, only to appear through flames? Now that's what I call a spectacular entrance!"
He had not been running blindly — he had clearly been running with purpose.
The reason those hurried, urgent footsteps had stopped here was that his purpose lay in this very place — no, in none other than Cecilus Segmunt himself.
——Rowan Segmunt, the swordsman who had pursued the "Heavenly Sword," despising and discarding everything else.
He had ultimately discarded even his own life, arriving here in this utterly transformed state. At the sight of his father, Cecilus nodded repeatedly and smiled.
Rowan, too, was grinning amid the flames consuming him. Cecilus, covered in blood, laughed.
A parent and child who had lived for the sword and could only die by it, laughing together —, "For the first time, I think of you as my father. —I don't hate you. Quite the opposite, I like you."
Saying so, ironically, it was the After-Cecilus who had forgotten — forgotten the opportunity to celebrate fulfilling the promise Before-Cecilus had made.
△▼△▼△▼△ ——Rowan Segmunt craved the "Heavenly Sword."
Why, for what reason, for what purpose.
He had grown sick to death of such trivial questions. They were nothing but idle ramblings entirely irrelevant to Rowan.
The trigger had vanished into the distant reaches of memory; the beginning had sunk to the bottom of oblivion.
From the moment he had first touched that steel shaped like a sword, there was no path left to Rowan Segmunt other than to master the act of wielding it.
Even after being granted the role of "Star Reader" with a heavenly mandate, even after siring a son who would surely become a vessel capable of reaching the "Heavenly Sword," Rowan continued to hone himself — for none other than himself to reach the "Heavenly Sword."
The greatest obstacle to his own ascension — the very fact that he himself had created it — he made even that a stepping stone, honing and honing and honing, refining his refinement upon refinement —, "Ah… what a splendid stage, is it not."
A burning soul, a life on the verge of turning to ash, his fate nearly spent.
He fed all of it into the flames, allowing his consciousness to seep into the nether realm as he crossed into a domain beyond the reach of both the living and the revenants — the liminal space between life and death, or perhaps a point that could only be called "the beyond."
It was tantamount to overturning the very nature and essence of what it meant to be a soul or a life.
A few more seconds — yet in this reality, the final significance of Rowan Segmunt's existence overflowed.
"————"
With each time his revenant body shattered, the beloved blade that had resurrected alongside him each time, he raised it and faced forward.
In the flickering distance of flames, he could see a small silhouette — and it held exactly the same stance as he did —, "——Now then, let us do this fairly."
"En garde — !!"
The momentary flash of Rowan Segmunt challenging the "Heavenly Sword" ignited.
△▼△▼△▼△ "I'll leave Anya in your hands."
To answer the request of Rowan's burning form, who appeared in the remnants of what could no longer be called a road, Cecilus thrust Alakia from his arms upon Al.
Startled by the suddenness, Al cried out "Whoa, whoa!?" — but Cecilus cast that sound to the depths of his consciousness and focused every nerve on a single person.
Once more, color, sound, and smell vanished from Cecilus's world, and only the pulse of steel reigned supreme.
——Now then, let us do this fairly.
He could tell from the movement of Rowan's lips as he touched the blade at his hip and took his stance.
Though he could not hear it as sound, the bond between a showy, vain pair of father and son allowed the soul to hear it.
Therefore, Cecilus answered in kind, with magnificent bearing.
"En garde — !!"
In a single instant, the distance between them was obliterated.
For Cecilus, the "Blue Lightning," this was nothing unusual in combat. But this particular instant had not been created by Cecilus alone — it was proof that Rowan had crossed the boundary of the mortal realm.
"I'm impressed."
This was a candid expression of admiration.
When he had parted from Rowan while the man was still alive, only hours ago, from Cecilus's eyes, his father had not yet reached this level. But now, having reunited with him as a revenant, Rowan's sword-power had undergone an explosive growth, and his sword-art had reached its posthumous bloom.
This was not a change wrought by speed or mastery of technique, but a transformation driven by a shift in consciousness.
The impact of one's mental state on performance was not to be underestimated. But simply breaking through one's mental shell did not dramatically enhance physical ability. So the change that had occurred in Rowan was not that kind of extreme physical transformation.
——Rowan had become capable of taking one deeper step.
It was not a physical step — beyond "feeling," it was difficult to explain further. Just as there was a vast gulf between amateurs and professionals, and between second-rate and first-rate professionals, there was still a gulf between first-rate and the transcendent beings beyond even that.
That invisible, indescribable divide — Cecilus deliberately referred to it here as "one step," and acknowledged that Rowan had crossed that boundary.
He had surpassed the gap of one step that he could never cross in life, by experiencing death.
People would say that was absurdly foolish, that it was the height of irony. But of all people, only Cecilus —, "I don't hate you. Quite the opposite, I like you."
Amid the flames that would not die, his body, his very life being burned away, Rowan's sword-strike cut loose — and Cecilus admired it with wonder in a world where all sound and color had been swept away.
The ceaseless discipline, the relentless refinement — the sword-light born of it all made his eyes sting.
Rowan would be called the worst and most despicable of fathers, and Cecilus did not deny that. But that spirit — the spirit of pouring one's whole soul into one's assigned role — that was something he loved.
"————"
Rowan, with his life on the very verge of burning out as fuel, unleashed what was the greatest sword-strike of his combined life and death.
That refined strike bore within it a killing intent that reminded Cecilus of death itself. —But the "Dream Sword" Masayume would not permit the nightmare ending born of that single-minded fervor.
The "Evil Sword" Murasame was a demon sword that severed the very concept of a core — the heart of all things.
In contrast, the true value of the "Dream Sword" Masayume, whose scabbard was dreams themselves —, "——Devour dreams, and make them come true."
A demon sword that housed the sword-power to fulfill one's wishes, in exchange for the motivation behind those wishes.
Therefore the "Dream Sword" had been given the name "True Dream" — a single blade that, depending on its wielder, could be either a dull blade or a sword capable of severing the world itself.
Having passed through the hands of countless owners over untold ages, its very reason for being long forgotten by those who had once burned with desire — the "Dream Sword" now rested in Cecilus's hands.
It was a miraculous coincidence, both for Cecilus and for the "Dream Sword" itself.
Because —, "There's no way my dreams and motivation could ever run dry!"
That was the reason Cecilus Segmunt was the master of the "Dream Sword."
His extraordinary, off-the-charts craving for the dreams he held ignited the full potential of Masayume.
——In that instant, the flash that was released cleaved through the very boundary between dream and reality as though they were one.
"————"
Compared to the titanic clash of Cecilus versus Alakia at the summit, it was an overwhelmingly quiet battle.
The impact on the capital, the Empire, the world was negligible — a one-on-one duel against a revenant that would dissipate on its own if left alone was nothing more than a trivial matter.
But for the parent and child who were Cecilus Segmunt and Rowan Segmunt, it meant everything.
"…Ah, truly, what an unfilial son I must be."
In the instant their blades clashed once, they crossed paths — the parent and child turned their backs to one another.
The revenant father, who would never again be able to see his son's face, let out a long, bitter breath and said: "If it had come to this, I should have just sliced you up nice and quick when you were still in the bath."
"Ha ha ha ha! Yes, yes, that's exactly right! That was the only chance Father ever had!"
Cecilus roared with laughter at the utterly graceless sore-loser remark.
Listening to that unabashed laughter, Rowan looked up at the sky. His blade, having lost its form, crumbled to dust, and as his existence unraveled from his burning fingertips, his golden eyes narrowed.
And then —, "Next, then. Next. —I am not the sort to give up just because I've died."
Right to the very end, without leaving a single word that could be called fatherly, his body, his soul turned to ash.
That was the final moment of Rowan Segmunt — the ferocious swordsman who had pursued the "Heavenly Sword" his entire life, who in death still refused to relinquish that dream.
△▼△▼△▼△ Ah, how he hated it, how he hated it — Rowan thought as he faded.
He had walked without ever stopping his stride for his entire life, and in the end, he had never reached the "Heavenly Sword."
The final radiance of his burning soul, incinerated and consumed, had never succeeded in illuminating the invisible path to the pinnacle of the sword. How vexing, how thoroughly vexing.
At this rate, the one to reach the "Heavenly Sword" would be Cecilus.
That it would be his son rather than himself — what a thoroughly spiteful jest from the Sword God. Frustration, disappointment, dejection, grief — if one were to begin listing them, the negative emotions were endless and impossible to wipe away.
And yet —, "Well, if someone must reach it, I suppose it is better it be anyone other than myself, is it not."
In their final clash, had Rowan been superior to Cecilus, would he have reached the "Heavenly Sword"?
He was not superior. Ultimately, even contemplating the hypothetical of what might have been was meaningless. Meaningless though it was, Rowan did not dwell on it. He was, after all, on the verge of disappearing.
He tried to think about something else — that there were things one ought not to do — and in that moment, he realized something.
Ever since he had gained awareness, he had pursued the "Heavenly Sword," and by dreaming of nothing but reaching it — waking or sleeping — he had sustained his very existence to this day.
When Rowan concluded that the "Heavenly Sword" would not be reached by him, there was nothing left to think about.
"Hm."
For the first time since he had harbored his craving for the "Heavenly Sword," he released it.
That sensation gave Rowan not a sense of liberation, but of loss, and a certain kind of discomfort. Within the ticklish sensation that even made his soul feel uneasy, Rowan thought for the first time in his life: ——Had the flash of his soul, reached at the cost of his entire existence, at least become something like the flame of a candle to light his son's path?
△▼△▼△▼△ Leaving behind only ash and dust, the figure of Rowan Segmunt vanished.
That this was truly the meaning of a father's death — Cecilus Segmunt understood it with his soul.
As a living man, Rowan was already finished. Even after becoming a revenant, he had still pursued the "Heavenly Sword," and the life that had burned to its final ember — Cecilus had definitively cut it down with his own hands.
"Al-san, I apologize for suddenly entrusting Anya to you. Carrying someone with only one arm can't be easy, so I'll be taking her back again soon."
Having fulfilled its role, Masayume was sheathed, and Cecilus turned to address Al.
But there was no reply to his call. Al knelt on one knee, supporting Alakia's body with one hand, and shook his head feebly.
"How can you… be so calm about this?"
"How do you mean?"
"You know damn well what I mean! That was your old man! When you parted, he was alive and well, and then he died and got used as a weapon — and you just—!"
"Wait, wait, hold it right there, Al-san. There's a misunderstanding there, so let me correct just that point. Father certainly had become a revenant, but he wasn't being used. The reason he attacked wasn't because he'd lost his sanity."
"Wh…"
"Oh, by the way, I mean 'sanity' in the normal sense, so it's entirely possible Father was never sane to begin with. Please bear that in mind."
Cecilus waved his hand casually as he added that remark about Rowan's psyche.
In any case, he wanted to dispel Al's assumption that Rowan had been made into a revenant, had his mind twisted, and had then attacked on someone else's orders.
"A child killing a parent is a pretty major dramatic development — it was even done in 'Magritta's Guillotine,' you know. —Of course, that Father and I would end up like this was pretty much fated from quite a long while ago."
"Fated… and fated?"
"Which is to say, the time simply came."
It was a resolution that both Cecilus and Rowan had known, from their respective sides, would arrive eventually.
That was why Cecilus had been surprisingly unsurprised that Rowan had returned as a dead man after parting alive. For Rowan, everything except reaching the "Heavenly Sword" was trivial — the fact that he would throw away even his own life without hesitation when necessary was something Cecilus could accept.
No one could understand Rowan. —No one except Cecilus.
And the father who had served as the most exemplary cautionary tale imaginable was not some incomprehensible monster. That was proof enough that the Segmunt parent and child possessed an unconventional but healthy relationship.
"Most people would probably deny the relationship between Father and me —"
Unlike Rowan, Cecilus did not consider everything in the world to be trivial. As long as one could tell the difference between cheers and noise, the more of the world one took in, the more it overflowed with blessings.
The light of the sun, the cool breeze, the falling raindrops, the fragrance of grass beneath one's feet, and Rowan Segmunt himself — all of them were blessings bestowed upon Cecilus.
"Father kept saying he was unfilial, but I don't think there's a more devoted son than me. After all, the mere fact that he is my father — the accomplishment of having brought me into this world — is far too great."
Naturally, that would be no consolation to Rowan, whose lifelong pursuit had gone unfulfilled.
In that sense, being called unfilial left Cecilus no room for excuses. Not that he had ever intended to live a life requiring excuses in the first place.
"————"
Cecilus stepped up to the speechless, stunned Al and crossed his arms with a tilt of his head.
The question now was what to do about Alakia. Even if he wanted to carry her somewhere safe, where in this ruined capital could one find a safe haven?
Perhaps there was no safe haven at all beyond Cecilus's own side.
"That said, I can't very well keep carrying Anya around and dashing about… If we don't get back soon, I'm liable to get an earful from Groovy-san, who's holding off that curse practitioner. Come to think of it, would Groovy-san be fine with it even if what we brought back wasn't the 'Evil Sword' but the 'Dream Sword'?"
The battle with Alakia had been entirely spontaneous, a chain of events starting from the encounter.
Cecilus and Al had come here to find the "Evil Sword" Murasame, which could sever curses — and unfortunately, that objective remained unfulfilled. Right about now, Groovy, left behind to hold the line, must be fighting that troublesome "Thorn Curse" practitioner.
"How about this for the moment, Al-san. We cooperate — you hold onto Anya as best you can, and I'll cut a path forward…"
"—No. I can't agree to that."
"Al-san?"
Cecilus's proposal was met with Al shaking his head in refusal. Rising from his kneeling position, he pressed Alakia back into Cecilus's arms.
Cecilus instinctively accepted her back, and then — "I told you. I've got something I need to do on my own. Miss Alakia was just a major detour. …Sorry to Groovy, though."
His voice dropping, Al's gaze through his iron helmet settled on the "Dream Sword" at Cecilus's waist.
"I can tell that blade at your hip is something dangerous. It might be different from what Groovy wanted, but do your best with it."
"So Al-san, you're going to go off on your own? I mean, saying it myself and all, but you don't even have a weapon — will you really be okay walking around alone? It'd be the most pointless death imaginable."
"—I won't die needlessly. That much, I won't do."
"Yes, it does seem that way. I can more or less tell."
At Al's tone, which carried an air of certainty, Cecilus nodded in agreement.
Having fought alongside him this far, Cecilus had come to believe that Al possessed some sort of ability similar to the "Sight-Seeking" trait of Schwarz. If that prescience truly let him see far ahead, perhaps Al really wouldn't die needlessly.
"But the reason you want to split up from me isn't just that, is it?"
"————"
"It seems the way Father and I settled things really didn't sit well with you. Could it be that you, too, Al-san, have complicated thoughts about parent-child relationships?"
"…It's got nothing to do with me."
Though the words denied any connection, the tone of voice made it clear the mark was not missed. Cecilus gave a slight shrug of his shoulders and re-settled Alakia in his arms.
On a personal level, Cecilus was reluctant to part with Al and leave him on his own.
It was partly because he judged it wasn't good to have his hands tied with Alakia indefinitely, but even more so because of the debt between him and Al — the fact that Al had lent him strength in settling the confrontation without killing Alakia.
Put simply, Cecilus had a debt to repay Al.
If Al had someone he wanted to save, then helping with that rescue was the proper course.
At worst, he could knock Al unconscious, carry him back to Groovy's location, use Masayume to sweep away every last obstacle, and then all of them could go together to rescue Al's "princess," as he called her.
That was what he was thinking when — "——I did not expect you to refrain from taking her life. Reconsideration: required."
Without warning, a third voice interjected into the conversation between Cecilus and Al.
Cecilus turned toward the source of the voice, his eyes narrowing slightly. —The owner of the voice was not in the act of leaping down from above; she was simply hovering there.
For a moment, upon hearing that familiar verbal tic, Cecilus recalled the "
"If the nature of the soul changes, the outer form changes. The reverse is also true, but… how does one discern that at a glance? I would like an answer."
"Ha ha ha ha — now that you mention it, how did I figure that out?"
There was no intent to tease or provoke. Cecilus simply laughed because he genuinely didn't know.
And yet, somehow, at a single glance, he had been certain — certain that the white-haired woman floating in the air above him was the same existence as that "Witch."
"But why are you here? I killed you once before, and you're coming back for a revenge match without learning your lesson? An opponent with that much fighting spirit is rather appealing from a charisma standpoint…"
"In brief, it is to fulfill my objective. I have achieved one of two major objectives. Once I achieve the other, I will be able to devote myself to my original purpose of creation, as intended."
"Oh ho, I see — I don't get it!"
"I believe my explanation was concise. I require: clarification."
"Then let me also give a brief, unusually concise answer — well, concise for me! —If you came here to fulfill your objective, then that objective won't be getting fulfilled by coming to me."
Simple, clear, perfectly obvious — there could be no more lucid an answer.
Hearing it, the white-haired "Witch" narrowed her eyes — framed by long lashes — and nodded.
And then —, "Ah, is that so? In that case, my answer is straightforward: You cannot kill me."
"————"
"I have determined who in the Empire is capable of killing me. None of them are remotely close to you. Therefore, no one can kill me."
The "Witch" spoke in a flat, dispassionate tone, then raised both her hands toward the sky.
In that instant, Cecilus felt with his skin a bizarre sensation — as if the space around the "Witch" and the sky itself were warping. At his side, Al took one step forward.
Since the "Witch's" appearance, Al had not spoken a single word.
He gazed up at the "Witch," who continued to radiate that oppressive force, and thrust his single arm straight out to the side. —The next instant, the melted ground swelled upward, a crude stone guandao materialized, and it was grasped in Al's outstretched hand.
Raising that stone guandao overhead, Al's throat trembled as he addressed the "Witch" —, "I am the Witch of Greed —"
"——Echidnaaaaaaaa!!!!"
With a howl of fury that sounded as though he were vomiting blood, he charged at her, completely beside himself.