He watched, unable to look away, as his arms became weapons. Biceps the size of a man's torso grew beneath his skin, triceps hardening into corded steel. His forearms thickened, veins becoming visible as the sheer density of muscle increased. His hands—already large—became massive, fingers extending, joints reinforcing until his grip alone could crush stone.
His neck thickened, becoming a column of muscle and power. His shoulders broadened, becoming impossibly wide, the deltoids growing so large they nearly touched his ears when his arms hung at his sides.
The skin was changing now.
His normal complexion—tanned skin—began to pale, shifting toward something bloodier, something more terrible.
It started at his fingertips, a creeping discoloration that spread up his arms like a stain. The color wasn't red exactly—it was the red of old blood on ancient stone, of arterial spray dried and oxidized, of violence crystallized into pigment.
