But.
Unfortunately.
A triumph has a way of turning...
... Into a tragedy.
Her attack flew straigh and true, and even Prushka knew she would make the hit. However, before she even realized what was going on, the argent spear sung and was lifted. The hands of the experienced monster twirled it around and caught the attack meant for him, meant for his face, with the long handle of the weapon. There was a loud clang and a shattering of sparks as they exploded in the air like a showcase of fireworks. The energies that Prushka had gathered evaporated in an instant, having been driven into the legendary weapon of eons instead of the man himself.
What Prushka saw was no longer pure fear or surprise.
It was, in a sense, disappointment.
Lobo - The King of Currumpaw...
For him, the hunt had come to an end, despite the mistakes of both the prey and the predator.
"Never trust your all to an attack that can fail," Lobo quietly degreed, his voice now cold and final. "You are asking for the world to cut your wings and send you plummeting to the earth."
Those ice cold eyes of the wild bore a hole through Prushka with their stare.
"To escape is a chance to live and fight another day, on your own terms," he continued, twisting the spear and lifting it above his head, tip aimed down. "Shame can be shouldered. Death is final. You won't get another chance."
The white-hot spear sang in murderous joy.
The man who held it did not.
This was simply his duty, for a reason unknown to all but him.
"That is the final lesson you will learn."
And so...
The argent spear came crashing down.
It was not a weapon meant for these days of men.
It was an instrument of death from ages long past.
Thousand years it had existed, as a form of defense against the would-be invaders from afar.
Some could call it a nation's soul.
Some could call it a knight's truth.
The essence of a true paladin, a true crusader.
But what is a knight, a paladin, but a murderer who has taken meaningless vows?
And if it is in accordance to those vows, he can take any life that is set before him, even if it were that of a young, small girl who was simply struggling desperately to live despite the hell she had been trapped in without her knowing?
It was a filthy truth, but it could not be avoided.
The weapon certainly did not care.
It had killed thousands during its legend, from the dawn of its myth to this very day.
But the man masquerading as a beast...
Or perhaps a beast masquerading as a man...
... He felt disgusted.
As the legenday spear, an eon old, pierced the chest of a girl only known as Prushka, he watched with no emotion as the white-hot glow turned to red and crimson fountain of blood painted the walls of the corridor. He shed no tear as he tore through skin, flesh, bone and heart with a single thrust of the instrument of death in his hands. It was light - not in weight but in essence - and thus it had become something of a ray of sun and flames that pierced its prey all too easily.
All, all too easily.
And it was drawn out, in a vermillion veil...
... All too easily.