The masked man's Swordsmanship was quite good.
After all, he had managed to elevate himself through Swordsmanship.
In Silver City, people like him were not lacking in talent.
After all, they did not have the Black Stone Breed or the Steel Breed.
They could only rely on Silver City's alchemical procedures and use rituals to condense cards for cultivation.
Anyone capable of elevating a skill and becoming a Card Wielder would be considered a minor genius outside.
But unfortunately, he had encountered Naimus.
At present, there were not many people in the entire world who could contend with him in Swordsmanship.
Even if the Sword Saints of every generation throughout history were revived, they would most likely still be inferior to Naimus.
Those who could defeat Naimus were most likely Mythical Breeds.
They had enough time to hone their Swordsmanship.
Since they had been born from the mud of heaven and earth, the concept of swords had emerged during the Golden Age.
Now, in the End Epoch, countless people practiced Swordsmanship.
Only the Mythical Breeds had survived until now.
Under such circumstances, Naimus was not inferior in terms of Swordsmanship's height, but he might fall short in the depth of his refinement.
Therefore, using a sword before him was simply courting death for the masked man.
"He's exhausted!" The masked man looked at the deep, bone-revealing wound on his body, fear and joy alternating in his eyes.
Under normal circumstances, after Naimus seized his sword, he should have killed him with a single strike.
They had already noticed that Naimus's attributes surpassed those of Card Wielders and were no worse than those of ordinary Silver Breeds.
Yet this strike had merely gravely wounded him instead of killing him.
That meant Naimus was running out of strength.
As long as they