Azriel watched Mirius writhe on the ground—panting, gagging, making sounds like a cat struggling to hack something out of its throat.
Mirius turned his head, blood spilling freely down his lips, and smiled.
"That gun…" he rasped.
"So you're the madman who paid ten billion velts for it…"
A harsh laugh broke from him before it dissolved into bloody coughs.
"I can see why now…"
His hand clutched the gaping wound in his abdomen. In mere seconds, Mirius had already pieced it together. He knew now how a mere soul weapon had been able to harm him. He understood—it was chargeable.
"Had you dodged left, right, even ducked… I'd have pierced your skull. But your instincts saved you. Jumping upward threw me off balance. Made me dizzy. Made me miss my chance to kill you."
He sighed, his expression was with genuine disappointment.
The three cadets stared, their faces drained of color. They couldn't believe it.
Prince Azriel Crimson—an Expert—had just injured a Master.
