Lango smiled because he knew he had a wonderful opponent before him. Fighting an opponent like this, then finally driving a blade into his heart-the outcome was secondary. The process alone was a pleasure.
Neo smiled. He felt the process did not matter; the outcome was what mattered most.
His heart had long since changed positions, and, worried that moving it back and forth between the left and right would give him insomnia, he simply had not moved it back.
So the spot Lango had stabbed was empty inside.
Neo had only recently been wounded, and this area was still recovering. It was like repairing a house: during the repairs, the furniture and other belongings inside would naturally be moved out first.
So Lango's stab accomplished nothing beyond making Neo bleed a little.
In particular, when Lango saw the inky black blood seeping from the wound, his pupils abruptly contracted. In an instant, he recalled the earlier scene of Neo shaking the dust off himself while spitting a mouthful of "bright red" blood onto the ground.
His body was not ordinary!
But this realization now seemed to have come a little too late.
Neo lunged straight forward, following the direction of the scimitar, then swept both arms up and reached out. Bloody light swirled through his pupils, two fangs emerged from his mouth, and the nails on all ten fingers grew and extended, giving off a chilling gleam.
Neo had said he disliked using weapons. Of course, there was certainly an unavoidable objective reason for that: he was... poor.
There was also a fundamental reason: his body was his best weapon. He had no need to carry extra burdens.
Lango had no time to dodge. Neo's ten fingernails pierced his chest, then ripped it open.
Neo opened his mouth and