"No! No! I had reached Level 15 half a year ago! How can I be in this state with one exchange?!"
Klein's scream was a mixture of disbelief and terror. His face twisted into a scary mask that contrasted violently with his current weak state—broken ribs jutting out, blood frothing at his lips, and his limbs trembling uncontrollably. He was a seasoned adventurer, a man who had ground his way through the lower floors of the dungeon for years. To be killed so easily was simply a joke.
Igris stood over him, his expression calm, almost bored. He casually wiped a speck of blood from his jet-black blade, the [Gratting Sword].
"It's not your fault actually," Igris said, his voice flat. "You're just so unlucky to have met me."
"Go to hell!" Klein roared, mustering the last of his strength. He lunged forward.
Igris didn't even blink. He didn't use a fancy skill. He didn't need to.
