After the wind is knocked out of him, Guts is inundated by the sensation of being drenched. Sticky, hot blood mixed with cold and slippery earth. He'd been dragged for a bit, clinging desperately to that sword, getting mud and rocks and grass wedged between the steel plates and tightly woven leather straps before the massive bulk slumps on him and pins his body there.

He struggles with little success. No way. No way in hell was he going to die under an over-sized corpse after nearly getting his head cleaved off. The pallid, sickened flesh of the creature's belly wriggles furiously as he manages to get a hand free. Clawing half-successfully at the ground, he manages to pull his head out from beneath the bear, gasping desperately for a clean breath. It was getting too difficult to keep his grip on the ground with the rain pouring down, and he slips.

His entire arm and head are drenched in deep red, like some odd thing re-emerging from the afterbirth of the fight. Once proper air manages to half-fill his lungs again, he slumps for a moment in the mud, letting the rain fall on him, seeing double of his hand just a foot or so away from his face.

"Shit..." he wheezes out, trying to regain some energy. Well, he was alive.