The room echoed with the faint, wet sound of dripping blood — thick, rhythmic, almost mocking in its consistency. Each droplet was a cruel reminder that Luke was still alive, still conscious, and still within Grandmaster Malgarius's reach. His breath came in ragged bursts, torn between gasps and choked cries. His right leg burned from where the blood-forged tentacle had impaled it, and his dislocated shoulder throbbed relentlessly, each pulse in sync with the pounding in his ears.
He could barely move — pinned halfway to the wall, half-slumped to the ground. Every inch of him screamed for relief, but none came. The blood tentacle still writhed within his leg, a living extension of Grandmaster Malgarius's will, keeping him from even the luxury of collapsing completely.
