Ting.
When he flicked the blade with his finger, a clear sound rang out. Held up to the light, it carried a faint blue sheen. A peculiar steel must have been used.
‘It doesn't seem to be Valery Mountain steel.’
This was the sword he had swiftly taken after killing Mitch Hurrier. One look was enough to tell it was a fine, high-grade, expensive sword. How could he have just left it behind?
Anyway, would Krais know? Enkrid turned his head to the side. Three steps away, Krais was sitting and staring intently at him.
He gazed blankly with those big eyes. It was clear he was full of questions. Enkrid openly asked, “Why?”
Before asking about the steel the sword was made from, it seemed he had to address the strange look in the man's eyes first.
“It’s fascinating.”
“What is.”
“Your left hand.”
As he spoke, Krais glanced at Enkrid’s left hand. Was he always that good with his left hand? He didn’t think so, and they hadn't been together for just a day or two.
His left hand, it was so fascinating. Was this what it meant to be a genius? He himself had no talent for swordsmanship or combat, so he couldn't tell just by looking, but still.
‘Wasn’t he average before?’