POP!
A sudden pop of cartilage.
Pain shot down his arm, and his sword grip faltered.
He blinked once...
Was this still a fight? Or had he fallen into another death?
His ribcage was next, wind molecules twisting and compressing.
Malik felt his ribs starting to buckle inward, as if someone was trying to fold his lungs.
His own Aether—what little remained—betrayed him.
It could no longer fight back against Cyrus's, for his core held more of it.
Indeed, Cyrus was holding back his Aether consumption the entire time.
The past twelve days all led up to this, his hijacking of Malik.
POP.
His ribs.
POP.
His knees.
CRACK.
His spine.
A heart burned.
Malik died.
Again. Again. Again.
He had stopped counting.
...Or maybe he'd never started.
Every blink brought him to the same threshold.
If he blocked, his skull would split.
If he moved forward, his chest would implode.
If he dodged, the very blood in his veins would boil under Cyrus's vacuum pressure.
