บท 677: Fame of Doom

I coughed myself awake; some idiot was pouring some sweet concoction down my throat.

"No, you damn fool." a female voice urged me. "Drink. Swallow, at least."

I almost gargled words; my tongue rebelled, so I swallowed, just to get the syrup out of my mouth.

[One day's healing in 120 seconds (two minutes).] The timer started.

What. The. Seven. Hells?

I mean, I knew of course. One of the greater healing potions. But who would waste one of those on me, and why?

I rubbed the haft of the Spear across my forehead, and tried to put together a world that no longer made sense.

"We need to cut the arm off." someone was saying.

"What? No you don't." I said.

"Right here. I'll pull the shoulder joint out..."

"Severing Strike!" said another male.

[New Health Condition: Right arm missing.]

I screamed and briefly passed out.

Fuckers.

Fuckers.