"What are you made of, Motherfucker?"
Fathoran's eyes narrowed. He remembered the moment when Elio killed his descendants, then, with a growl, he raised the lance.
As the lance's tip drew ever closer, Elio, exhausted and bleeding, concentrated intensely.
"It's in these moments that we know what we're made of,"
The words were now etched in his soul.
The Patriarch, blinded by his fury, launched a direct and brutal attack. The lance whistled through the air, its deadly point aimed directly at Elio's face.
The lance's whistle grew louder with each passing millisecond.
In that critical instant, Elio's heightened perception, coupled with his extreme concentration, allowed him to see the attack.
With a movement born of pure desperation and adrenaline, Elio tilted his head to one side at the last possible moment.
The lance passed so close he could feel the air displaced by its passage.