Iron Hand's sword instantly shot toward Modret's heart.
At the last possible moment, Modret twisted sharply to the side, barely evading a fatal blow.
Even so, the weapon still skewered his chest, and his hot blood immediately stained the pristine snow.
"You're truly slow, Modret," Iron Hand commented, a faint, chilling smile playing on his lips.
Modret quickly staggered backward, putting distance between himself and his attacker.
He desperately clutched his chest, the pain a searing, unbearable agony.
His gaze fixed on Iron Hand, a tremor of shock running through him at the masked assailant's sheer power.
'Even with all my abilities, I still can't keep up with him!' Modret conceded internally, his mind racing to construct a new strategy.
"Hmm?" Iron Hand finally exhaled, his attention drawn to the precise spot his sword had struck.
To his astonishment, Modret's wound was already mending. The exposed flesh on his chest rapidly knitted itself back together.
