"That sword was made for me a long time ago by a skilled dwarven blacksmith. However, I outgrew it and decided to do away with it. Who would have thought I'd come across it once again in my life? Could this be fate?"
Cain grinned with bloodied teeth,
"What? Do you want your sword back? Here, take it!"
Cain's muscles tensed as he shifted all his weight to his back foot. Twisting his hips, he let the {Hand of Stingè} fly like a bullet. He didn't have any strong attachments to the sword, so he wasn't averse to letting it go. He had also thrown it mostly out of spite and his frustrations.
Fighting someone like Stingè was not just draining physically, but emotionally as well. It was different from when he faced beings like Og-solath and Lyx. Before the Primordial Devils, he felt like an ant. If they had wanted to kill him, it should have been as effortless as breathing.
Against beings like that, there was no reason to fight...
