Arel smiled slightly, his spoiled lip getting in his way:
“Stupid handsome prince,” he said, “that's what they used to call me.
Kors sadly walked away from him, looked at himself in a large mirror: Nikto strongly blackened the skin around his eyes, on his cheekbones and chin, seemingly carelessly smeared light gray and dark gray dyes on his face, roughly, as if he was not painting with a brush, but with fingers, but Kors couldn't help but agree that at the same time it suited him. It didn’t spoil him, and in spite of everything, he looked albeit creepy, but at the same time impudent, very brutal, a gloomy dangerous warrior, and… still noble. The ideal features of a born sir couldn’t be distorted by any paint. He was an outcast warrior, mysterious, dark, dangerous. No, nevertheless, Nikto really had the talent of an artist, however, his canvases were human bodies, but Kors almost resigned himself and didn’t fall into such a panic about his spoiled body as before. He undressed slowly, examining the bruises. Lis beat him quite harshly, and it looked like Kors dislocated his arm. His back and scapula ached unbearably, radiating into the sternum, and this made Kors feel as if his heart ached: “I need peace, just a little peace,” he thought. “Too often I have been experiencing physical pain and discomfort lately. My body is constantly being rudely used, I began to live on wear and tear. I was recently beaten by the Demon, and here it is again… if it continues like this, I won't be all right until the age of eighty as I planned. From all this beatings and fights, drugs and strong stimulants, I will become weak and turn into a wreck. Such a life is not for me.” Kors felt uncomfortable, at the same time offended and ashamed for succumbing to Lis’ provocation, acting like a stupid boy. Lis was simply toiled with boredom and wanted to let off some steam, and Kors took everything seriously, pounced on him like a madman. After all, Lis could kill him, on his belt, as usual, knives and weapons of the reds hung. If only he wanted to! But Lis didn’t even think to do this, he just wanted to fight, not seriously, and Kors almost killed him! And if he killed Lis?! What would he tell the Demon? After all, they are one whole. As Lis says, fingers of a fist. And Kors was such an idiot! He just had to leave, and not butt with an inadequate half-blood. Who, by the way, perfectly controlled himself and didn’t inflict serious injuries on Kors, and Kors… at that moment he forgot about everything – about the Demon, and about the Mission, and about the fist. He wanted to tear Lis to pieces for real, and now he was ashamed of it. He just joked about him, teased him, and he threw himself into a fight like a fool, and now burgundy bruises were again filling his body and his arm hurt unbearably. How to fix it?