The blade was fast and sharp, decisive and carrying hardly the slightest intent to it at all. Maybe in the world of assassins, this was the most perfect of strikes—a level of soul control that the old assassin had never taught Theron at all.
And yet, it was unfortunate.
The blade froze in place, the water vapor in the air becoming so solid and grand that it felt like he had pierced against a solid wall.
Theron didn't even move, his head bowed low and the tears still streaming from his eyes. It was as though nothing at all mattered to him but the memories flashing in his mind one after another.
'This will be the last time,' he thought to himself. 'This will be the last time I shed a tear. From today onward, I will only shed blood.'
…
Hours later, Theron slowly rose to his feet. As though he had forgotten that the blade that once came for his life was still hovering there, his back was cut into and his spine was nearly filleted open. And yet, he hardly flinched at all.
