“It's all? And where are you going, old fuck?”
“Well, that's enough for me!” And, before reaching the door, Kors turned sharply and rushed at Lis, who seemed to be just waiting for this. They clashed fiercely, and Kors was no longer the noble black who had been struck by the poke of a half-blood commoner. He was embittered by previous humiliations and now made it clear that he also knew how to defend himself and fight for his place under the sun. He – Vitor Kors – was a true black, despite the nobility and spoiledness from a prosperous, calm life, he was still not a weakling and not a rag about which anyone with brute force would wipe their feet. Throwing away all his good manners and no longer thinking about them, he beat with all his might and was in no way inferior to Lis. They rolled on the floor, grappling like two animals, like two commoners from the filthy pub in the Lower City. Kors was taller and stronger physically, because initially he grew up and lived in more favorable conditions, and Lis was still weakened and didn’t fully recover after being healed. Moreover, Kors rejected all the rules and decency, letting go of his nature, which had long demanded an exit and from the inability to respond to the Demon's humiliation only accumulated, now reaching a boiling point and exploding. Karina realized with horror that her father was killing her Lis, and he couldn’t do anything, obviously underestimating the enemy. But she didn't know how to intervene. Kors threw Lis away so that he crashed into a wall with shelves, knocking them down, and old books and bottles of some kind of potions and dye rained down on him. They smashed against the stone floor with a clang, splattering Lis with specks of paint. A massive brass candlestick was the result of their fight, falling down from above and hitting Lis right on the top of the head, so that Lis lost consciousness.
Karina, screaming, rushed to her beloved:
“Father, stop it!” she cried, falling to the floor near her Lis and lifting his head, peering into the whitened face and trying to see through the dense fabric hoe he felt.
Kors moved away, straightening his hair, his chest was shaking, he was breathing heavily and he was shivering.
“Lis?! Lis!” Karina called, but Lis didn’t move, his face was deathly pale, a thick dark-burgundy trickle of blood flowed from under the roots of his hair onto his forehead.
Karina turned to her father:
“What have you done?! You killed him!”
Kors himself seemed frightened when he saw such unusually motionless Lis, but he stirred with a groan and opened his eyes.
“He has nine lives,” Kors said as he walked up to them and abruptly lifted the upper part of Karina’s cape to reveal his face.
There were tears in her eyes full of reproach:
“You crippled him!”
Lis raised himself awkwardly, leaning his back on the smashed closet, looked with a slightly dull look at the candlestick lying next to him, and, slightly bending his head, put his hand on which drops of blood fell. He unconsciously put his hand on the top of his head smashed by the candelabrum. He looked up at Kors, trying to understand what had happened now and why this noble weakling had managed to beat him.
“Lis, honey, how are you?” sobbed Karina.
Lis looked at her, then back at Kors.
“Don't you dare touch her,” he said quietly, but still defiantly, “she is no longer yours!”
