"Four broken ribs, one punctured the lung. Both Achilles tendons severed. But that's not even the worst of it,"
James shook his head with a sigh. "He suffered massive blunt trauma to the head. When they found him, he'd just come out of emergency cranial surgery. They've confirmed brain death—he's in a vegetative state."
"Brain death?"
Orson's heart sank into a dark abyss.
Medically speaking, Drunken Dream was nothing but a shell now. Even if some miracle brought him back, he'd never be the same.
"His butler was loyal to the end. Took multiple rounds to the gut and still dragged him here before he died."
James's hand trembled around his cigarette. He stepped back instinctively—he could feel the pressure building. A volcano on the verge of eruption.
He had created the Archmage of Infinite Dimensions with his own hands.
And he knew better than anyone what the Archmage's wrath looked like.