At that moment,
A piercing shriek shattered the silence,
causing all the busy Martial Artists to stop what they were doing and look, horrified, toward the source of the sound.
The scream came from the Eighth Grade Martial Artist.
A stalk of White Bone Grass had buried itself deep into the palm of his hand. The intermingling of fresh blood and the grass's faint glow was a bizarre sight.
The flesh around the wound began to rot rapidly, emitting a foul odor.
Even more shockingly, his palm was dissolving at an astonishing rate, consumed by some unseen force.
The Eighth Grade Martial Artist struggled, trying to use his Elemental Power to pull out the White Bone Grass, but his efforts were in vain.
The stalk of White Bone Grass seemed to have a life of its own, coiling tightly around his hand and fusing with his bones.
Fear and despair were written all over his face. His voice echoed through the canyon, sending a chill down the spines of the other Martial Artists.
