The curse of truth!
The vice chief of the bandits convulsed in agony upon the ground, his body a canvas of suffering. Vitality seeped from him like sand through an hourglass, as his once robust frame withered before their eyes. His cheekbones, once prominent and full, now sank into his face, transforming into hollow craters. The flesh that had once adorned his visage now receded, leaving behind a skeletal countenance where only skin clung desperately to his emaciated bones.
Every breath he drew seemed to exhaust him further, as if the very essence of his being was being drained away. It was as if an invisible force had stripped him of his vitality, reducing him to a mere shell of his former self. The sinister effects of the curse were evident in every contour of his diminishing form.
The vice chief was suffering physical torment under the relentless grip of the curse of truth, a curse that extracted every ounce of vitality.
