"Boss, this old bastard's not dead yet."
As the Barbarians cleaned up the battlefield, Zat walked over, hauling a small old man as if he were a chick.
The Shaman had a bloody hole in his shoulder, and blood had soaked through more than half of his clothes. He grimaced in pain every time Zat's steps jostled the wound.
However, whether because he had used Witchcraft or something else, the wound had actually stopped bleeding.
Levi wasn't surprised that the Shaman was still alive. With his spear throw, he had never intended to kill him, deliberately avoiding any vital spots.
Zat threw him down in front of Levi.
"What's your name? What kind of Witchcraft do you know?"
Sam pressed his lips together, unwilling to speak, trying to maintain his dignity as a noble Caster.
He was a cunning old fox. It wasn't that he was truly determined to resist to the death; he was just putting on airs to increase his own value.
