Someone had just launched a deadly strike at Clayton—strong enough to kill him outright. The thief and the old man even felt a flicker of satisfaction, imagining that one of Clayton's enemies had delivered a clean, untraceable act of vengeance.
If Clayton died like that, it would look like a personal grudge. Even if the city authorities investigated, the focus would be on the attacker, not on them.
But what they never expected… was that Clayton was still standing.
He was battered, pale, and barely upright, but unmistakably alive. Faint blue filaments and droplets of water shimmered around him.
The thief's expression twisted with rage.
"Damn it… that armor again! That cursed armor! Does it ever run out?!" he snarled.
He'd already accepted the loss of his hand as the price for Clayton's life.
But now, that magic had saved Clayton once more—only adding fuel to his fury.
"Useless!" he spat. "You're all useless! Not a single one of you could kill him?!"
