[A good punch to the face is maybe all Elsword needs to snap out of it, this depressive state he's gotten himself so thoroughly entrenched in. He's not fucking okay, and maybe he's never been okay in his life. But that punch snaps his head to the side, and even though he doesn't fall over like others might with a punch that hard... there's blood on his lips when his gaze snaps back to Wolfwood.

He throws his own punch back with the opposite hand, not letting go of his sword for a second. This one, he aims more at Wolfwood's ribs.]

I don't. But if you wanted me dead, you would've killed me. You wouldn't have started off using the opposite end of that sledgehammer. You wouldn't have dropped it just now to throw a punch.

[His face is already bruising, but he doesn't do a thing about it. All he does is spit blood onto the ground and regard Wolfwood with a cold, sharp stare. Then, he casts aside his sword, shoving the tip of it into the ground with a low shhhnk sound.]

Are we doing this with our fists, or our weapons?

[Two people this self-destructive should not be doing this, but here they are. One wants to be the bad guy; one wants to feel like he's in control of everything he isn't. At this stage, they might both fill those roles.]