Ethan flipped his palm and pressed the glowing orb directly into Grandmaster Quinn's open wound.
Sssss—!
The moment the light touched flesh, a violent hiss erupted. Thick, oily black smoke poured from the injury, coiling like snakes in the air. A vile, rotting stench surged outward, instantly flooding the room.
"Fuck—!" Markham was the first to react, bolting out the door like a spooked horse, nearly tripping over his own feet.
The others grimaced, recoiling instinctively. Matriarch Whitmore flicked her wrist with practiced grace, summoning a sharp gust of wind that wrapped around the noxious fumes and hurled them outside like a tornado in miniature.
Markham, having just skidded to a stop halfway down the hallway, turned back—and took a deep, relieved breath.
Right as the expelled stench slammed straight into his face.
Gag—!
The unlucky guy choked violently, eyes bulging, then rolling back as he collapsed in a twitching heap.
No one paid him any attention.
