"You bitch—!!" the third son roared, his voice cracking with fury as he grabbed what remained of his arm—what little was left of it—most of it already reduced to drifting ash that slipped through his fingers like something that had never truly existed. His scream carried both rage and disbelief, a refusal to accept what had just been taken from him.
For cultivators of their level, the loss of a limb was never a trivial matter. Regeneration was possible, yes—but never equal. That arm had not merely been flesh and bone; it had been years upon years of training, refinement, muscle memory etched into its very fibers, real strengthening forged through battle and pain. It had grown alongside his power, adapted to his techniques, become an extension of his will.
Replacing it… was not the same.
