The scarred leader, still reeling from his squad's instantaneous defeat, spat blood on the ground. "Go to hell. Ironblood doesn't talk."
"Wrong answer," Julian stated, his voice devoid of emotion. He didn't move the sword. Instead, a single, razor-thin tendril of shadow, thinner than a wire, extended from his sleeve. It snaked up the man's leg and, with a precise, vicious flick, sliced a deep, shallow cut along the back of his knee, severing a specific tendon. The man screamed, his leg buckling.
"I can sever every motor nerve without hitting a major artery," Julian explained calmly, as if discussing the weather. "You will be a conscious, screaming heap of unresponsive flesh. Then I will hand you to her." He glanced at Beatrix, who just stared at Julian in confusion as to why Julian was pointing at her. "She is an expert in biochemical reactions. Pain, on a cellular level, is her specialty."
