Under the last, waning light of the evening sun, Maxwell stood calmly in a field of ruin.
There was a certain heaviness to his expression as he gazed at the dozens of ruined houses, shops and wooden buildings that'd been reduced to rubble in this landscape.
But the heaviness in his expression didn't — couldn't — match the heaviness he felt in his heart. And worst yet, his expression couldn't even properly betray how heavy his body felt at that moment.
How could it? After all, the practiced, perfect cold mask of his was doing tough work. For the past hour or so, it felt like Maxwell had reverted back to an instinct that he thought was long gone.
And the cause of that reversion…
With squinted eyes, the regressed god peered into the distance, spotting the figure in dark, tattered robes kneeling with his head down, covered in bruises, injuries and afflictions.
