Adam's frail body had turned pale, a layer of sweat sticking to his skin.
The corruption crept outward from the wounds with alarming speed. Black veins spread beneath his skin, branching down his arm towards his fingers and crawling up his neck like living rot.
Wherever they passed, sensation dulled, replaced by a deep, gnawing ache that slowly drained his strength away. His grip weakened, and his breathing grew uneven. Yet still, he continued to fly further and further away from the unholy tree.
He needed to find a safe place to heal his arm—if such a thing was even possible.
No, there was a chance. And now, he had to try it.
Dragonshit!
He cursed inwardly as he infused mana into the Stealth Cloak, trying to keep its enchantment constantly active. But the artifact was slowly failing him.
Thankfully, the damned snake wasn't following him.
As he sensed the wounds to his shoulder, his heart sank.
The flesh around the wounds had darkened further in just a span of minutes.
