The tiger looked at its reattached leg. The greenish, discolored, rotting piece of meat didn't even feel like its leg. It moved like the tiger wanted to. But it didn't provide any feeling and the muscles in it were stiff.
More than that, the tiger could feel an uncomfortable presence in it corroding its body. The leg was poisoning the tiger. But the leg also possessed a deep power.
The tiger had no choice in the matter. The Underworld had grabbed it and its leg and done whatever they wanted to it.
It was dying. The Underworld had only delayed the inevitable and bestowed upon the tiger the gift of pain and an opportunity for revenge that it wasn't worthy of. It had already lost. It had already died.
So what if it had already lost? So what if it wasn't worthy of another attempt?
At this point, the tiger couldn't care less. It was going to die either way. It might as well die at the hands of a worthy opponent. Not prey. Not game. Not weak ants. Equals.
