Don't listen to him. Don't trust him. He's lying, he's lying, all he'll do is hurt you more. The small, rational voice in him was in the minority. He didn't care anymore; he wanted to be out of this, and he was willing to take any chance, even if that chance was practically zero.

It was a struggle just look at him (and as always, looking at him was accompanied by a bit of a daze), but he managed a weak nod.

Spitting out another batch of blood, he inhaled, filling his lungs to the best of his ability, and held it in...

Milos counted as soon as Eld breathed in deep. It was a good cue, and a little merciful on his part. Before, he had told Eld when to stop breathing. This time, he had given Eld the chance to take in a deep breath and start the countdown at his own volition. It would certainly do better for him than last time. In fact, if it weren't for blood that would fill his mouth constantly from the eleven holes in his mouth, he might even be able to hold his breath for a full minute. But Milos took the loss of teeth, and the pain he was in, into account.

"One, two, three . . ." Milos started to count.

At first, all went well. Milos didn't pace, nor did his face flare up with anger. He just stood stagnant before Eld, counting and watching for any sign of difficulty he might have.

But once the single digits were cleared, a difficulty was added. Milos lifted his foot and stepped down hard upon the knife still jabbed within Eld's foot. This time, it went straight through, until the blade touched the ground.

"Ten, eleven twelve . . ." Milos continued as he tilted his foot from one side to the other, a tilt for each second that passed . . .

While the chance to start the process himself indeed helped, it was balanced by a new difficulty added: the blood in his mouth. It didn't matter how long he could hold his breath if it filled enough to start choking him before the time was up.

But at the ten second mark Eld decided that was the least of his worries. The knife in his foot--practically forgotten about, given everything else done to him--was jabbed all the way through. It was painful, but somehow he managed to hold on, even as Milos rocked the knife back and forth.

His eyes squinted shut. He could do this. He'd reached the halfway point, and if he could just hold on another fifteen or so seconds he'd be able to get out of the madness.

The teens went by just like that: with a tilt of his foot each and every time. Of course it would be painful, miserably painful in fact, to break the wound open again and make it worse, all after the blood had already clotted in it-- but it may not be the worst Eld could experience. After the forced extraction of ten of his teeth, there were few things that could possibly be as painful or debilitating.

And when the teens came to an end . . .

"TWENTY!" Milos screamed.

And suddenly, in a burst of pent up rage, Milos vented it all in one fail swoop. With a hammer in hand, he struck down upon Eld's right hand as hard as he possibly could. But it was much, much worse than that. Rather than the center of his hand, he struck the knuckle, straight down upon the joints where his index and middle fingers connected to his hand. And then . . .

"TWENTY-ONE!"

Again.

"TWENTY-TWO!"

And again.

"TWENTY-THREE!"

And again . . .

It didn't matter if Eld breathed or not. More than likely, he would, to try and scream. But for the full ten seconds, Milos wouldn't stop. Each second, he'd pound the hammer down upon Eld's hand, each hit boasting his full strength, each hit progressively dislodging skin and fracturing bone more and more, and by the end of it, Eld would feel empty spots upon his hand-- empty spaces, where joints once remained, where hammerfalls had been so harsh the the tips of fingers, the middles of fingers, and even a finger in its entirety, dislodged and shattered so much that it was no longer part of his hand-- that the skin had broken and sinew snapped, and pieces fell to the floor . . .

If was not surprising that Milos had more in store for Eld when he lasted through ten seconds of the knife wound in his foot being aggravated. The first hit to his hand stretched his willpower to the breaking point, and the second completely shattered. He tried to scream but only succeeded in spitting out the blood that had built up in his mouth.

But even though he'd lost this gamble, his captor did not stop, and continued to hammer on his fingers even as he cried out in anguish. Ten seconds of torture may have seemed less painful than the half hour he'd endured earlier, but even worse than the pain was the sight that remained when it was finished.

His hand couldn't even be called such anymore; at least one finger was gone entirely, and the rest were smashed to nothing in at least one spot. The chances of him being able to use it again were significantly slim.

It horrified him, greater than anything thus far, and with his body weak from exhaustion and blood loss, his mind overwrought from panic and terror, and his spirit diminished to nothing, Eldridge Tsukimono finally passed out...