The fleshly tentacle of the Worm Monster suddenly tensed around Eamon, yanking him toward it, dragging his body through the mud.
"Go to hell, you beast!"
Eamon's angry roar pierced through the air as he struggled furiously, trying to grasp anything, the ground itself, but he could not resist the relentless pull of the tentacle, getting dragged closer and closer.
The monstrous mass loomed larger in his vision.
Watching his life inch closer to death, the primal fear of survival surged forth, shocking his enraged mind into clarity.
He thought of his mother, ill and bedridden, the two of them dependent on each other for years.
But now, if I die, what will happen to mom?
At this moment, Eamon himself couldn't identify his emotions—fear, regret, wrath, unwillingness, pain...
Regardless, as this thought emerged, he was mere meters away from the monster.
Your gift is the motivation for my creation. Give me more motivation!