A muzzle designed to tightly encage the captive's beastly visage, guarding against the feral fangs that yearn to inflict harm.

Smell was the sense that constructed the borisin Warhead's sense of the world. Rain, dust, campfire, blood, medicine… From the deepest part of the battlefield, they came shaking and wafting, with a torrent of odors that flooded every inch of his neurons.

All he could smell now is the heavy sturdiness of the torture devices, and the cowering fear of the jurors filling the air.

He knows that these weak-fleshed judges are afraid of the sharpness of his fangs — He had stood on the precipice of a steep cliff, bathed in the moonlight of madness, and felt the instinctive impulse in his veins. He had followed the labyrinth of smells, penetrating into the enemy's camp in the darkness of a lightless night, and crushed the skulls of his prey one by one… The borisin Warhead admires the concept of polished fangs, regarding them as blades and spears, symbols of the power and confidence to tear apart anything.

“The borisin Brood Lord gnashed and gnawed on flesh, devouring the blood of innocents. He is sentenced to a lifetime in a cage with his face covered in a closed-mouth muzzle, convicted of the Ten Unpardonable Sins.”

The Warhead contemptuously looks around. The swordmaster who engulfed everything like an icy sea of fury is not there… He has no interest in this tedious sentence.

Heavy shackles that tightly bind the evildoer's hands with steel needles pinning into the wrists, preventing the vicious claws from doing harm again.

As the clouds parted, the moon's shadowy light poured over the Warhead's scarred body. The huge claw that was slashed off by the silver-haired swordsmaster was left aside, and the desperate Warhead's blood vessels pulsated furiously. Accompanied by a long, painful howl, he grew his sharp claw once more.

Catalyzed by Moon Rage, the Warhead barely caught up with the moonlight-like sword strikes. He prayed silently to the power of the Abundance, determined to finish the final fight as a trapped beast.

He had already forgotten how many times the borisin army had broken through, only remembering the countless times his soldiers had used their claws to tear open the gaps in their advance, only for it to tightly close again. The exhausted borisin relied on their nigh indestructible regeneration, struggling to tear down all obstacles before them — The Warhead's blood soaked his claws and he sank into a trance, only to suddenly realize that he had nowhere to run, and there are no more soldiers following him.

“Borisin Brood Lord, you have taken countless lives by your own hand. Your wrists shall be bound in lead and stone and put under strict control.”

The Warhead finally collapsed, powerless, in front of the swordsmaster. For the first time, he felt that exhausting near-death experience. “What an incomparable blade,” he couldn't help but think, “What an incomparable thrill!”

A prisoner's garment that restrains dangerous criminals. Its reversed-joint design confines the prisoner's body.

Metal shackles that bind the feet of the beasts, imprisoning evils and preventing them from escaping and wrecking havoc.