The old man lay helplessly on the ground. The alcohol and the old wounds that ached constantly throughout his body had temporarily robbed him of the strength to stand.
Behind him, the resilience of shoe soles and the hard, icy weight of wrenches kept pounding into his body.
But compared to the pain of the old injuries lingering inside him, the blows barely counted for anything!
He lay there, trying to push himself up with both hands.
But after moving only twice, he was smashed back onto the ground.
The claws extending from between his fingers were still sharp, so why could he no longer use them to kill those damned people like he used to?
The increasingly dizzy old man could not understand it. Then, all at once, he noticed something.
The claw closest to the edge of his left hand could not fully extend!
It seemed he had found the reason his claws were no longer sharp. He was old, and his fangs and claws had grown old along with him.
Thud!!!
A powerful side kick sent the old man rolling over, turning him from prone to flat on his back.
Everything that had just been striking his back now slammed into his chest and face.
Blood gradually blurred the old man's vision, but no matter what, he forced his eyes wide open.
Though he was old, the instincts forged through countless years of fighting told him—
In a fight, if you closed your eyes, you were bound to lose!
With his eyes fixed wide open, the old man suddenly saw something he did not want to see.
While beating him with wrenches, those damned punks had actually pulled guns on him!
The instant he saw the guns, the old man panicked!
Was he afraid of being shot?