Chapter 133

He was not fatally injured yet, and that was by design. Moosa knew the precise points in the body that, if struck or cut, could steal life within seconds. Years of training and experience had etched that knowledge into his instincts, turning anatomy into a map he could navigate blindfolded.

And he was deliberately avoiding those places, calculating each movement with unnerving care. He did not want death to come quickly or mercifully. He wanted to take their lives slowly, stretching the moment, turning time itself into an enemy that refused to move forward.

Time, in this room, was a currency he spent with lavish cruelty. Making every breath difficult, every gasp feel like a punishment, every second an unbearable struggle between consciousness and darkness. The man whimpered, his fingers clawing weakly at the floor as if he could anchor himself to the world, but Moosa did not look away. Suffering, to him, was a language, and he listened carefully, reading every tremor, ev