Whoosh.
This ti, Blaine hesitated no longer.
He let go of the bowstring, and the arrow shot forward.
As if guided by sight, it pierced Harold's right hand and nailed it to the wall. Harold was now pinned in place, arms spread wide like a grotesque display.
"Ahhh!!!"
Harold scread in pain, instinctively trying to clutch his abdon, but he was firmly pinned. Any movent tugged on both wounds, causing unbearable agony.
"This arrow… left leg!"
"This arrow… right leg!"
Harold roared, "You bastard… Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!"
He had been completely pinned down by Blaine.
Both hands. Both legs.
The palms of his hands were pierced through, and the arrows had driven straight through his thighs, shattering bone. The excruciating pain nearly made him pass out.
Correction: he did pass out.
But in the very next second, Blaine approached, grabbed one of the arrows, and snapped it with a light twist.
Pain that strong not only knocks you out — but it can also wake you up.
"Interesting," Blaine muttered.
He picked up the Bow of Elents and casually aid it at Harold.
"You tell … where should I shoot next?"
Intentionally or not, the arrowhead pointed toward Harold's third leg.
"NOOO!!!. You won't dare or I won't let you go! I won't let you go!!" Harold shouted.
But instead of desperation, sothing odd flickered across his face — a strange smile, tinged with blood and madness.
"Tsk." Blaine shook his head.
"Stop howling. It's boring."
Harold slowly raised his head, locking eyes with Blaine. His bloodstained face twisted into a devilish expression — like a demon crawling straight out of hell.
"I will kill you," he said.
"Welco," Blaine replied calmly, raising the Bow of Elents and aiming it at Harold's head.
He hadn't co here for a clean kill. No — he ca to torture Harold.
This smug, arrogant bastard had been getting on his nerves for far too long.
Ever since becoming a Bounty Hunter, Blaine believed in fair dealings. And Harold? He didn't even offer a commission.
That was two cris already — arrogance and cheating a Bounty Hunter.
But the thrill of torture faded quickly. Blaine wasn't a true sadist.
Sure, he knew plenty of ways to inflict pain.
Eye-gouging, ear-slicing, drugs to mute screams, amputations, and slow death by confinent.
Lingchi, inch-by-inch dismbernt, executions by a thousand cuts...
And then there was "grooming." Not the gentle grooming of a lady, but a brutal punishnt — scalding a prisoner with boiling water and scraping the flesh with an iron brush until the bones were exposed.
In his previous life, Blaine had read about countless horrific tortures used in ancient tis — and he could think of using them.
But imagining them was one thing. Carrying them out?
Even with his kill count, Blaine knew he'd likely puke himself unconscious before finishing such acts.
The arrow condensed slowly.
Now it pointed at Harold's forehead.
Harold could feel it — the elental energy converging like a drill, boring into his skull, even though the arrow hadn't left the bow yet.
It hurt.
But Harold didn't flinch. In fact, he smiled — a cruel, dying beast of a smile, eyes gleaming with twisted light.
"Kill ." He even pushed his head forward slightly, as if welcoming death.
This was a stark contrast from the desperate man just monts earlier.
"Eh! I forgot sothing," Blaine said, lightly patting his forehead as if rembering sothing trivial.
"The Hand can bring you back, right?"
Harold's pupils shrank.
How does he know?!
Is he part of the Hand?
No. Absolutely not.
Then how?
Panic began to creep in. The reason for Harold's sudden bravado was precisely because of the Hand's secret technique — Resurrection.
The Hand could revive the dead through so mysterious force.
Harold had been dead for three days before they brought him back.
So death didn't scare him. He believed he was still useful — aning Resurrection was guaranteed.
And once revived, he could partner with the Hand to strike from the shadows and take down Blaine.
It was this confidence — this supposed immunity to death — that fueled his suicidal behavior.
But Blaine's words shattered that illusion.
If this Bounty Hunter knew the Hand's secret — and if he planned to completely erase Harold, body and all — then resurrection would be impossible.
Harold wasn't Wolverine. He wasn't Deadpool. He couldn't grow back from a finger. A headshot ant death — true death.
And the Hand wasn't going to search every corner of the earth to find him. At best, they'd just replace him with another puppet.
He was convenient — not irreplaceable.
Once dead, the most the Hand would do is issue a hit on Blaine.
But Harold would already be gone. Revenge wouldn't matter.
Still, Harold was no fool. He buried the panic deep in his eyes, masked it with arrogance, and even nodded in mock confidence.
"That's right!" he spat. "The Hand can resurrect ! Regrow limbs! Raise the dead! Even if there's only a head, a hand, or a finger left — I'll live again! And when I do, it'll be your turn to die!"
He glared at Blaine with the intensity of a cornered actor going all-in, blood at the corner of his mouth, grinning wildly.
"Psssh..."
Blaine chuckled.
'If I hadn't watched TV and learned about the Hand... you might've fooled .'
He raised an eyebrow, gaze narrowing.
"You said… a single finger is enough?"
"What about… a cloud of ash?"
"Or a puddle of pus?"
"You think the Hand can resurrect you from that?"
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