Conquest

Conquest's vision blurred into a jagged, crimson haze when his legendary invulnerability finally pushed to its breaking point. His chest was a ruin of shattered ribs and pulped muscle, while Mark hovered above him like a vengeful specter of execution, ready to deliver a finishing stroke that'd end centuries of conquest. Just as the final, skull-crushing blow began its descent, a sudden blur intercepted the strike. The sudden presence of another Viltrumite loomed over the battlefield—unexpected, and for him, completely unnecessary. Which left him with a shameful vision of himself, having to be helped like this. He spat a thick glob of blood onto the cracked pavement—his remaining eye watched with simmering rage at the interruption. "Do not... just stand there basking in the stench of my failure." A guttural, wet wheeze escaped his throat as he attempted to brace his good arm against the rubble, with the urge to rejoin the slaughter. "I have tasted more agonies than that boy has lived years. Don't think for a second that I require your pity to stay upright!" He slumped back against the debris with a jagged grin, watching with the cold, expectant gaze of a general waiting for the next move.