?”Cough, cough.” Greg, clutching his stomach, rose to his feet, tilting his head to expel the taste of blood from his mouth. .

Revealing blood-streaked, grim teeth, his eyes were fixed on Soma, who was closing in.

His form was somewhat unsteady.

Humans and subrace magi share a common flaw—their defensive value often falls short of their offensive power.

This vulnerability, dictated by their fragile bodies, means that even with mana-based protection, that layer of defense primarily serves to buy time for a bodily response rather than withstand a mana-infused assault.

Soma’s punch had penetrated through the mana defense, striking deep within Greg.

It was likely that his internal organs had sustained serious damage.

Without timely medical intervention, death could be imminent.

Taking a deep breath to suppress the chaos in his mind, Greg tightened his grip on Crusher’s long handle, straightening his posture.

Even in the face of death, he was determined to make Soma pay.

For the rage ignited by bloodshed can only be quenched with blood.

However, in the next instant, Greg’s pupils dilated rapidly.

He heard a breath, right behind him.

Someone had approached him undetected, in the blink of an eye.

Who could it be?

The image of the young man whose face he hadn’t seen flashed through Greg’s mind.

It was him.

“Don’t meddle in affairs that aren’t your own.”

A voice, slightly hoarse yet carrying a gentle tone, whispered in Greg’s ear, sounding almost like a devil’s murmur to him.

Greg attempted to turn and counterattack, but, as expected, he failed.

Darkness enveloped his vision, and with a sudden numbness at the back of his neck, he lost all control over his body.

“Boss.”

Seeing Greg collapse limply to the ground, Soma froze for a moment, his gaze shifting to the young man behind Greg.

“Let’s go. Blindman might have messed up,” the young man said without further ado, stepping away.

Glancing at Greg lying on the ground, then back at the departing figure of the young man, Soma hesitated for two seconds but ultimately sheathed his long sword.

There was an unspoken rule among the young man’s ranks: the fate of those he personally dealt with was his to decide.

In other words, the young man had already determined Greg’s fate.

If Soma were to finish Greg off now, it would be a violation of that rule—the very thing the young man despised most was those who broke the rules.

The last person who did that was already six feet under.

“You’re lucky.”

With one final glance at Greg, whose fate hung in the balance, Soma suppressed his urge to kill.

The crimson rage in his eyes faded as he turned and followed the young man.

Earlier, near Harry’s building, Howard was trapped behind a wall.

Jumping over the wall led to a straight alley with no cover, flanked by houses on both sides.

Crossing the rooftops was equally dangerous, making him an easy target.

The enemy’s method of attack was still a mystery, making any rash move akin to offering himself up for attack.

Yet, inaction was not an option either, as every second was crucial.

Delaying even a second meant Ali’s situation became increasingly perilous.

What to do?

A direct charge was out of the question; it would surely turn him into a sieve.

If only he could determine the enemy’s attack intervals.

Howard’s mind raced, hoping to find a viable strategy. 𝘪𝑎.

He wasn’t even demanding a high success rate; any feasible plan was worth attempting.

If he could just ascertain the enemy’s attack intervals, Howard might stand a chance of dashing through the alleyway.

The best way to determine the enemy’s attack intervals would naturally be to provoke them into attacking.

However, the adversary wasn’t foolish; their greatest advantage lay in their ability to launch undetectable long-range attacks without warning.

They wouldn’t act rashly.

It was like a sniper, most threatening when the bullet was still in the chamber.

Recalling the previous attacks, Howard estimated the shortest interval between them.

Three seconds.

The real attack interval of the opponent wouldn’t be shorter than this.

Even without interference, traversing the nearly hundred-meter-long alleyway would take Howard at least seven seconds.

This meant that, mid-way, Howard would be subjected to at least two attacks.

Moreover, due to the lack of cover in the alleyway, it effectively shortened the enemy’s aiming time, potentially reducing the attack intervals even further.

Two to four attacks, possibly more, without any effective warning system, relying solely on instinct to dodge.

“This is practically suicide.”

Howard clenched his fists tighter.

He could roughly discern the direction of his adversary, but that alone was far from sufficient.

Yet, he had no other choice but to try.

It was highly likely that his opponent was at the other end of the alley, near a small church that, with its towering spire, stood as one of Lorinda’s tallest structures.

For a long-range attacker, seeking higher ground for a broader view was an obvious strategy.

Breaking through this alleyway would give him a chance to get close, seizing the initiative into his hands.

It seemed, then, that he had no option but to force his way through.

But charging forward didn’t mean recklessly rushing in; it meant leveraging all of his available resources for the assault.

Speed.

Speed was all Howard had.

Increasing his speed meant crossing the alleyway in less time, making it harder for his opponent to aim, extending the intervals between attacks, and reducing the number of times he could be hit.

Setting a limit of two seconds, Howard estimated he would face three or four attacks.

Dodging these would spell his victory.

So, it was time to move.

With a push of his palm against the top of the wall, Howard propelled himself up with utmost speed.

In almost a blink, he was already standing firmly on the rooftop, beginning to accelerate.

The first second.

Atop the church spire, just as Howard had surmised, Blindman was indeed lying in wait.

More precisely, he stood there, his longbow aimed directly at Howard’s forehead.

A provocation?

Observing Howard’s almost suicidal action through his sights, Blindman’s lips curled into a cold smirk.

If you don’t cherish your life, don’t blame others for taking it away.

As a long-range attacker, Blindman was acutely aware of his limits and knew precisely how to probe his opponent’s.

Through the previous attacks, he had gauged Howard’s mobility.

Now, with Howard so blatantly exposed within his range without any cover, it was akin to suicide.

With the longbow fully drawn, Blindman had locked onto Howard’s forehead, anticipating his next dodge.

Although Howard was not moving in a straight line, it made no difference to Blindman.

He was Blindman, seeing only his target.

Fingers released, the bowstring slicing through the air emitted a sharp twang.

The second second.

Howard silently counted the seconds, with mana fully mobilized, a single second was enough for him to cover more than fifteen meters.

With his mana replenished, his speed far exceeded that of an average knight, moving like a weightless shadow in a zigzag pattern to maximize the difficulty of being targeted.

But it was futile.

The first attack was imminent.

His intuition, as before, gave him no premonition of the strike.

Instinctively obeying his gut, as if unaffected by inertia, Howard made a sharp change in direction.

In that moment, Howard seemed to split in two.

A blade-sharp gust of air grazed Howard’s cheek, leaving behind a fine line of blood as several invisible attacks pierced the rooftop.

It was only after the assault had passed that the faint sound of breaking the sound barrier reached Howard’s ears.

The enemy’s attack had surpassed the speed of sound.

Could mana truly achieve such a feat?

Without the luxury of further astonishment, Howard, while internally restarting his count, continued forward without decreasing his speed.

By now, he had covered nearly thirty meters on the rooftop, roughly a third of the entire distance.

The first second.

Howard could have moved faster, but he deliberately chose not to, as if unsure of the true interval between his adversary’s attacks.

He couldn’t allow his opponent to fully grasp his limits; otherwise, he wouldn’t even have the chance to dodge.

His speed, no matter how swift, couldn’t break the sound barrier.

Once the enemy had a clear understanding of his limits, they could predict his movements with precision.

Without identifying his enemy, Howard couldn’t afford to reveal his only trump card.

The second second.

Howard reached back and grabbed the package he carried.

It was a weapon obtained from Antalya, not some legendary blade but a common type of straight sword crafted by Greg.

Its design was fairly typical for the region.

Howard has a preference for swords, but weapons of such kind cannot be forged in a moment’s notice.

Moreover, Howard isn’t fixated on using any specific weapon; he’s indifferent to the choice.

The sword is 1.3 meters in total length, with a blade length of one meter, sharpened on one side, boasting a straight spine with a slight curve, making it suitable for piercing and precise swordplay.

Its most significant feature is the superior, sturdy material from which it is made.

He had sighted his target.

Atop the church spire, a lean figure stood against the wind, the longbow in hand particularly conspicuous.

That was the enemy.

He saw the figure draw the longbow.

Without a moment’s hesitation, Howard pushed his speed to its limit.

Although the attack hadn’t been launched, he already felt the looming threat of death closing in.

The enemy intended to end it all with this strike.

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