The light was not sweeping or sweeping, but a straight, extremely concentrated beam of light that enveloped Tormund's entire body.
No screams.
No struggle.
There wasn't even a flame.
Tormund's body was like a piece of paper thrown into the furnace in the golden light. The edges first began to curl, shine, and turn white, and then the entire paper turned into ashes in less than a heartbeat. Even the ashes were quickly evaporated by the higher temperature, turning into a faint white smoke that was almost invisible to the naked eye and drifted away in the wind.
The beam of light lasted less than two breaths before dissipating.
A charred, human-shaped depression was left on the beach.
That was the posture of Tormund's body lying on the beach at the last moment before it disappeared completely - arms spread out, legs slightly bent, head slightly tilted to one side. The depth of the depression was about a finger, and the edges were burned into a glassy, smooth black The material reflects a faint luster in the morning light. There are still a few wisps of white smoke remaining in the center of the depression, curling up and quickly dissipating in the sea breeze. The sediment within a few feet of the surrounding area has been burned into hard lumps by the high temperature, and it will make a crisp sound like stepping on broken pottery shards.
There was once a person there.
There is nothing now.
King Ghidorah The middle head closed its mouth and made a low, hiccup-like gurgling sound.
The two heads on the left and right glanced at each other, and then looked at the charred sand pit, with expressions as cold as if they had just completed a trivial household chore - washing dishes, sweeping the floor, taking out the trash, simple things.
Redd didn't look at the sand pit again. He turned around and walked towards the other side of the beach.
King Ghidorah followed behind him, each step of his huge body leaving deep dents in the sand. Three heads were raised high, and six golden eyes scanned everything around him vigilantly - the Lys civilians hiding in the shadows in the ruins in the distance, the still smoking wreckage outside the port, and the pollution belt on the sea that was dyed purple and black by Dragon Blood.
Everything is under the gaze of this giant beast, and nothing can escape its eyes.
Daemon is still struggling.
He has been pinned to the beach by Ice Spear for a while.
The right shoulder was penetrated, and the whole person was lying on his back with his limbs spread out, like a butterfly nailed to a specimen board.
The Ice condensed spear passed under his shoulder blade and pierced into the sand beneath him. The tip of the spear sank into the hard soil at least two feet deep, firmly fixing his body to the ground. No matter how hard he struggled, he could not move at all.
But he was still struggling.
He held the spear shaft tightly with his left hand and pulled it up desperately.
The spear did not move at all - not because he was not strong enough, but because the low temperature emitted from the spear froze his flesh and blood together with the spear shaft.
His palm, his fingers, his tiger's mouth, and all the skin in contact with the spear shaft have frozen, the blood has solidified in the blood vessels, and the water in the muscle tissue has crystallized into ice, bonding his left hand and the Ice spear into one.
Every time he exerted force, he could feel the skin on his palm tearing and ice crystals piercing the muscle fibers. The pain was not comparable to that of a normal wound - it was the double pain of being frostbitten and then being torn apart. It was heat and cold, tearing and freezing acting on the same nerve endings at the same time, an almost indescribable torture.
But he still pulled it out. Once, twice, three times.
Each time was accompanied by muscle spasms and a low roar from the throat, like a wounded beast.
His right shoulder was also constantly bleeding, not because the spear was moving, but because every time he pulled out the spear, the muscles in his right shoulder would instinctively contract, squeezing and tearing the blood vessels around the wound, allowing more blood to gush out from the wound.
The blood began to freeze the moment it flowed out, condensing into a circle of dark red, coral-like ice crystals around the spear shaft, fixing the spear shaft and the wound more firmly together.
His face was extremely distorted.
It's not the kind of expression that is distorted by pain, with misaligned facial features, and that makes people look at it.
The facial distortion of Daemon is a deeper, more essential change that makes people instinctively feel uneasy when they see it - it is a complete process from anger to madness to collapse on the face of a person who is unwilling to accept failure from the bottom of his heart and is crushed bit by bit by reality.
His eyebrows were twisted together, the veins on his forehead popped out like earthworms, his nostrils were flared, his lips were pursed, the corners of his mouth were drooped, and his entire facial muscles were twitching uncontrollably.
His eyes were the scariest part of them—those dark gray pupils burned with an almost crazy light, as if someone had lit a fire in his mind. The fire burned away his reason, his judgment, and all his thinking abilities, leaving only the most primitive and instinctive anger and desire to survive like a trapped animal.
Redd was in no hurry to get there.
He stood not far away, with his arms folded across his chest, watching Daemon's struggle as if he were appreciating a work of art.
That kind of look is not cruel or bloodthirsty, but something higher-level and calmer - it is the pure curiosity that rises in the heart of a hunter when appreciating the last struggle of his prey, which is neither sympathy nor pleasure, but pure curiosity.
He wanted to see what this descendant of Targaryen, this self-proclaimed king of Stepstones, this man who deliberately set up an ambush to kill him, what was left after he had completely lost everything.
Next to him, Dawg Lars and a few soldiers stood aside, keeping a safe distance.
They watched Daemon struggling and roaring on the sand, with his face distorted. No one came forward, no one spoke, and even his breathing was very low.
They know that their mission is just to "keep an eye on Daemon, don't let him die, and don't let him run away." Since His Highness himself has arrived, their mission is considered completed.
As for how His Highness will deal with this prisoner, that is His Highness's business. They only need to watch, obey orders, and lend a hand when His Highness needs it.
Dawg The corners of Lars' mouth twitched slightly.
He looked at Daemon's distorted face, and a complex feeling surged in his heart - not sympathy, not pleasure, but something in between that was inexplicable.
He has fought at sea for most of his life and has seen countless people collapse in the face of death, some crying, some begging for mercy, some going crazy, and some silent.
But Daemon was like this - he was obviously nailed to the ground, and there was no hope left, but he was still trying to pull out the spear with his hands that were so cold that his skin was bruised - this kind of almost instinctive and uncontrollable struggle made him feel a deep and indescribable fatigue.