The sword went through the armour as if it were just silk. His knees buckled as it severed his spinal column and exited out his back, hilt hard up against his chest. He hung there, held from collapsing to the earth by the sword that had been driven through him as if he were paper. As his sight began to waver, he forced his gaze to follow up the arm of his slayer. His eyes widened as he found himself staring at nothing more than a mere slip of a girl clad in vermillion armour. Not armour, a crimson tunic perhaps. No, not a tunic, just blood, a cloak of blood dripping like honey. She put her bare foot, toenails painted with splatters of blood, against his breastplate and slid him off her sword. The last thing he saw as the reaper’s scythe bore down on him were her eyes looking at him, into him, through him. Burning into his soul, flaying it from his body. With his last thought, he prayed for the Devil to take him to the depths of hell. He now knew there was somewhere that even Beelzebub feared to tread.