Killing Aron and Bron would be simple. One strike, one swing of his sword, and their heads would roll. That would end their existence quickly, far too quickly for Max's heart to accept. Death was a release, and release was not what he wanted for them.
He wanted them to feel the weight of what they had done. He wanted their every breath to carry agony, their every thought to be poisoned by pain. He wanted them to suffer in ways they had never imagined, not for a few moments, but for as long as he chose to keep them alive.
Their bodies twisted violently beneath his grip, their screams echoing across the arena. The corruption spread through them like wildfire, but Max kept a tight leash on it. He guided it carefully, making sure it destroyed without killing, burned without ending, broke without releasing. Every moment was engineered to draw out despair.
