The clearing in the forest fell silent once more.
Wang Tie gripped his dented Thick-Backed Machete, staring blankly at the gray-robed Fang Han. He was so stunned he forgot to wipe the blood from his face.
The short, stout man beside him was frozen in place, his Adam's apple bobbing several times, but he couldn't utter a single word.
Just moments ago, they had been struggling on the brink of death. Now, in a sudden turn of events, all eight of the Third Grade Martial Artists who had surrounded them were dead.
Wang Tie finally came to his senses. His eyes landed on Fang Han, and he recognized him. He asked uncertainly,
"Are you… the fellow from outside the forest earlier?"
"That's me."
Fang Han sheathed his sword, looked at Wang Tie, and gave a slight nod.
Wang Tie opened his mouth, a thousand thoughts swirling in his mind, unsure where to begin. After a long moment, he finally forced out two words:
"Thank you!"
