Schmidt leaned against a cold, damp crevice in the reef, his body nearly wedged into a recess in the rock. He was a miserable sight.
He stood in stark contrast to Roland, who, not far away, only had some torn clothes and an aura that remained as steady as ever.
His dark gray High Tower robes were in tatters, covered in mud, seaweed slime, and the dark red, bloody froth he had coughed up himself.
His left shoulder was unnaturally sunken—the result of a direct hit from Roland's shoulder charge.
At least two of his ribs were clearly broken, and every breath sent a sharp, stabbing pain through him.
His chest was an even worse mess. The front of his robes was soaked in his own blood, and the flesh beneath was a swollen, bruised purple. His internal organs had clearly suffered a severe shock from the terrifying impact.
