The fingers of the Master's hand twitched and convulsed, trembling with malignant vitality. Residual power radiated from every inch of its colossal frame, as though the limb itself refused to acknowledge its dismemberment. A will still lingered inside, stubborn, hateful, unwilling to fade.
Then the back of the palm cracked open like stone splitting under divine lightning. From the fissure emerged a single, massive eye—black sclera, molten crimson iris, a gaze that radiated a hunger beyond stars. It swiveled slowly, almost curiously, as though attempting to comprehend its condition. But the moment it landed on Vlad, all semblance of neutrality vanished. The eye blazed with pure hatred, and killing intent erupted in a wave so suffocating that even mountains far in the distance shuddered under its aura.
The nightmare was not over.
