The bartender, whom Moh had spoken to earlier, shouted from behind the counter, her voice laced with anger. “I thought your record was five guards!”

Moh, wiping the sweat from his brow, replied in a dry tone, “Oh shut up. You’re just mad because your bar is wrecked.” He gestured toward the devastation wrought by his battle. “Losing a hand is a fitting punishment for your betrayal, old fool. But just know that next time, I’ll cut your head off,” he warned, his gaze fixed on the hole created by his explosive confrontation.

Moh walked away as if nothing had happened, leaving the chaos of the bar behind him.

After about an hour, he reached the hotel. He strode past the receptionist, who stared in shock at the sight of him—his tattered clothes streaked with blood and sand—but Moh didn’t spare her a glance. He climbed the stairs, opened the door to his room, and flopped onto his bed without bothering to clean up or change.

As he lay there, he sighed in frustration. “Here we go again,” he muttered, releasing the dagger he had clutched in the battle. It had felt like a part of him, but now that it was free, a wave of excruciating pain surged through him.

Moh winced, gritting his teeth as the agony coursed through his body for a minute, a painful reminder of the cost of his cursed abilities. He sighed again, this time with resignation, before finally closing his eyes and slipping into a restless sleep.

Narrator: Don’t worry about him; this isn’t the first time he’s used the dagger. In fact, whenever Moh holds his dagger, he feels only half the pain associated with his curse. But once he lets go, he endures all the pain—or even more—for a full minute.

Now, let’s take a look at what Amr has in store for his dreams tonight.