A spear appeared in Leonel's hand. It was simple, with a wooden pole arm and an obsidian blade. Despite this, the craftsmanship was exquisite.
The primitive man that had formed had taken a great deal of care and attention. Four years, in fact. Everything from the grain of the wood to the edges of the obsidian were perfectly in line.
It was light. Not by Leonel's standards, but rather by the standards of mortals. It wasn't even two pounds of weight or a single kilogram. It felt that the entire spear had been hollowed out.
And yet, the sharpness that it exuded alone seemed to press upon the throats of the entire army.
They subconsciously reached up to their necks, feeling as though they might find themselves spurting out a great amount of blood, but they turned pale when they realized there was no wound to speak of.
