Using the blood essence of the red giant Gorath, Darius's injuries began to knit together with unnatural speed.
The torn edges of his flesh sealed seamlessly, leaving behind no scars. Splintered crystalline bones—once ground nearly to powder—reformed and hardened, regaining their former strength. Muscles thickened, vitality surged, and before long, the battered warrior stood tall once more, his skin gleaming as though it had never known a wound.
If Ricky hadn't seen the savage beating with his own eyes, he might have doubted it had ever happened at all. The transformation was that absolute, that impossible.
And Ricky wasn't the only one staring in disbelief.
Darius's own astonishment was a mirror to Ricky's, but layered with something more dangerous. The way he now looked at the twenty-foot-tall giant had shifted—there was a glimmer in his eyes that was not born of gratitude. It was sharp, hungry… a strange thread of greed woven into the righteous light that usually defined him.
