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After Cedric disappeared into the distance, Leon finally sheathed his sword and let out the breath he had been holding.
“Phew…!”
The exhale carried the thick stench of blood. His abdomen throbbed with internal injuries, his hands had split open again and again with no time to heal, and his eyes—abused to their limits with Rodrick’s Vision—burned as if they might fall out.
In other words, Leon was in ruins. If his body hadn’t become tougher after ascending to the Master’s realm, he would have lost his grip on his sword midway or fallen out of rhythm entirely.
What saved him was the lingering light of Solaris within the Holy Sword and the moon hanging in the sky above, accelerating his regeneration. His palms, crushed so badly that even the lines had been erased, swiftly mended back to a spotless state, leaving behind only faint stains of blood. Internal wounds, too, eased with a few breaths until his bloodstream calmed and his body returned to normal.
Without the Stigmata, I’d have been suffering for at least half a month.
And that was without even taking a direct hit. The shocks that bled through during the exchange of blows, the force spilling past the swords, had shaken his very Aura...
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