Ting, ting, ting.
The sound of a small metal object hitting the ground breaks through the pain induced deafening ringing of Trece's mind. His legs give out as he falls to his knees, his body ripples from the impact, sending off droplets of crimson red. His body loosens, weak from the recent events, his glutes fall to meet the heels of his feet.
Freedom. his voice echoes as his eyes find rest, a smile crosses his lips as he collapses onto the floor into a heap of battered flesh.
Now is not your time.
A different voice cuts through the darkness, as he lays in a pooling puddle of his own blood.
Not yet.
The voice continues as Trece blindly pats around and clutches his fallen spoon.
Live to spite death, he will not find ease in taking you. Live to spite those who wish to see your early death, they will not find it easily. Fight until you can no longer and you will find me in Freedom. Now is not your time.
The fallen Seetan straightens himself out, his eyes slowly blink open; his fist squeeze closed, acting as his crutch, as he pushes back to his feet. He stands wearily; his open hand holds his gaping chest wound and his other hand, hanging at his side, grips the blood drenched white iron spoon.
His face stoic once more, staggered, Trece stares at the armored fiend
[ +- ] Otessite
"You cannot run from Death, Uburatu, she calls your name."
He stalks forward, his eyes focus on only one, his path set with each step paved in blood. Despite his staggered pace, his speed with a spoon is unmatched; two rapid strikes followed by a swift punch.