The Jack of the Black Mist did not bleed. When Velanor's raw, granite-coated uppercut launched the Warlord across the dead plains, the dark assassin hit the ash with a sickening crunch. His spine bent at an unnatural, fatal angle, but Jack just laughed. It was a high-pitched, erratic sound that scraped against the eardrums like rusted iron.
Velanor stood firm on the ground, breathing heavily. He watched in disgust as Jack's broken spine snapped back into place. The Warlord slowly stood up. His hunched posture returned. The boiling black poison dripping from his dual serrated daggers hissed as it hit the dirt, melting the ash into a bubbling puddle of toxic sludge.
"You hit hard, little mountain boy," Jack twitched expeditiously, his head snapping to the side in a jerky motion. "But you are too slow. You fight like a falling rock. I am the shadow that cuts the rope."
