
The Little Mountain, once it collapsed onto the ground, twitching, seemed like a bloody pulp. The rending of his side was but the major injury, he was openly bleeding from the multitude of smaller ones the Maw's horns and spikes had cut across his scaly form. If someone wanted to stitch all of them, it would likely take days.
Still, his reputation as unkillable was not to be countermanded this time. The Earth that was his essence would clot and close the bleeding eventually with the efficacy that would make a troll blush with envy. However dramatic and desperate it looked at that moment, however mauled he was, he would eventually recover. But he wouldn't be the same. Jigoku didn't find a way to kill him, nor to stain his soul, but his body would forever be marked my hideous reminders of the fight. Few would be places across his body that wouldn't be carrying dark, repulsive scars, superseding the lattice of his tribal tattoos with their own horrific constellations and networks. His visage would forever be the very tapestry of horrors the joint forces of Heaven and Earth had to face at the gates to Hell. Like a mountain pocked by incessant mining, standing as robust as ever, but forever altered and defaced.
[Disturbing Countenance]
Unlike Shinjo, he wouldn't revert to his human form upon collapse, perhaps because his consciousness wasn't gone, irrespective of pain, blood loss and exhaustion. Neither was his will. Inching, creeping, slithering, he tried to get to her, and once he did, he would roll his form into a nest in which her body could be cradled, his own maw at her wound until Kyosei magic wouldn't close it, the forked tongue sweeping off the hellish, corrupting bile from the gash and spitting it out. Slowly, slower... but never ceasing.