Slade's heart lurched in panic. He stumbled back, trying to dodge, but the blade was lightning-fast—it sliced past his forehead so close it actually sheared off a few strands of his hair.
The energy from the lightning-type crystal core stung his skin like a thousand needles, sharp and searing.
He staggered several steps before finally regaining his balance, chest heaving. That was way too close—he'd just brushed past death's door.
Cold sweat trickled down his spine, soaking the back of his shirt. He blinked, trying to focus.
A girl had appeared.
She was slim, almost fragile-looking, with pale skin and a face so delicate it could've been carved from porcelain. But her expression was ice-cold.
It was Mia—Ethan's so-called "best friend."
She gave a slight nod, her eyes scanning Slade. Her gaze landed on the tattoo under his chin—a distinctive mark.
"Black Hand Legion?"
"You… who the hell are you? Why'd you stop me from killing that zombie?" Slade asked, still shaken.
