Murakami touched the blood on his neck. He could not remember the last time he had bled.
As an ancient monster who had lived through the entire Industrial Age and was a full four or five hundred years old, Murakami was more than qualified to tell such an old tale steeped in antiquity and dust.
Under Leon's disgusted gaze, Murakami licked the blood from his finger, then turned and spat it onto the ground.
He did not question the sneak attack or anything of the sort. In a fight to the death, Murakami himself had done things like gouging eyes and throwing sand.
A battle of life and death had always been about nothing but life and death!
The wound on his neck did not affect his fighting, but being slashed so easily by his opponent was almost unbearable to Murakami.
He had practiced martial arts for centuries, constantly breaking through his limits and pursuing ever greater heights of skill. He himself was practically a living martial arts epic.
Yet he discovered that he might not be able to beat a brutish powerhouse who only knew how to chop, chop, chop.
Leon's crude way of gripping his blade and his even cruder attack style—his stance and the way he exerted force—were all ugly and unbearable to behold in the eyes of a master of technique like Murakami.
And yet, this very man had driven him back with one move and drawn blood with another.
Shin had probably been killed by a move like that. That man...
Had not lied.
For one brief moment, Murakami felt somewhat lost over the centuries he had spent painstakingly struggling to survive.
Before absolute power, technique became utterly worthless.
Then what value did the martial arts I painstakingly honed for centuries have? What value did