Under the assault as fierce as a storm, the man wielding a short knife was already covered in wounds.
His originally neat suit had been reduced to tattered strips, soaked in deep red from his blood. Barely visible beneath were horrifying wounds deep enough to show bone; his face was so smeared with blood that it almost obscured his vision, yet he dared not be distracted to wipe it away.
Although these wounds were not caused by direct hits from the enemy, just the wind pressure and the sonic booms produced during the battle were enough to cover his body with injuries that would be nearly fatal to an ordinary person.
Could he consider it a miracle that he had managed to dodge and not be killed by a direct strike until now?
Vincent actually found himself harboring such bizarre thoughts amidst this life-and-death moment, then once again, the intense pressure of impending death overwhelmed him.
