In an instant, he withdrew all his Nen, and even his imposing presence.
His intent to attack,
The Black Blade's exposed edge,
The Nen flowing over his body...
Everything vanished in an instant, then emerged in another.
During that transition, the blade rose and fell...
And just like that, with time all but frozen, it effortlessly cleaved through the slender sword in Feitan's hand.
A Nen user was at his most vulnerable in a state of Zetsu, so suddenly using Zetsu in the midst of combat should have been impossible.
It would undoubtedly expose him to the risk of dying at any moment.
Yet this incredibly dangerous act seemed to be the condition for Moyu's strike.
Drip, drip—
Blood trickled from the gash in Feitan's cheek and dripped onto the ground.
Ignoring the wound on his face, Feitan struggled to suppress the shock within him.
Much as he hated to admit it, that last slash—
For one fleeting instant, it had made Feitan consider abandoning his sword.
But Feitan quickly adjusted his mindset, steadied his breathing a little, and raised the broken sword horizontally before his chin, gently resting his other index finger against the break.
As someone who enjoyed torturing others, Feitan had a cold, hardened heart.
No matter how the weakness and fear buried deep in human nature blossomed before him, he remained as indifferent as if he were watching an ant being dismembered into dozens of pieces. Nothing stirred within him.
Yet Feitan's extreme personality was actually like a spring being compressed tighter and tighter...
Once it reached its breaking point, that calm inner self, untouched by anything, would turn into an outward frenzy that wanted to burn everything to ashes.
Feitan stared at Moyu with cold, sinister eyes.
He refused to accept this.
Moyu turned around