Man With Super Medical Skill by Matthew

Chapter 3534 Arrogance

Matthew's calm voice echoed through the arena, reaching every corner of the vast space. All eyes were fixed on the iron blade in his hand, disbelief etched across their faces.

"Is he serious?"

"He actually said he'd defeat Deathcarver with a blade."

"Is this guy out of his mind, or is he just plain arrogant?"

Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Their voices carried nothing but ridicule and scorn for Matthew's audacious declaration. To them, his actions were no different from courting death.

Across from Matthew, Deathcarver's body trembled slightly-not with fear, but with excitement. In just a few words, Matthew had pinpointed all of his flaws. So, how could Deathcarver not feel a surge of anticipation when facing such an opponent?

Beneath the wide brim of his straw hat, Deathcarver's eyes gleamed with a chilling light as they locked onto Matthew. His hands slowly moved to the hilts of the two blades at his waist.

Shing!

The metallic hum of blades leaving their sheaths resonated through the arena. In his left hand, Deathcarver held a short blade almost two feet long. His right hand gripped a longer blade, nearly four feet in length.

look forward to this

lunged toward Matthew. His right hand swung the long blade in a sweeping arc, its edge flashing with cold light as it slashed

eyes. Someone like him... could've been a kindred spirit. But if I don't kill

the blade came toward him. At the last moment, the three-inch iron knife in his hand struck the center of the long blade's edge. The clash sent a powerful shockwave up Deathcarver's arm, numbing his grip. His expression

in the Death Arena came down to one

left hand shot forward, the short blade aimed directly at Matthew's chest. Matthew's

Clang!

Deathcarver staggered back a step, his footing momentarily thrown

one last strike-the one that always ends the fight." Deathcarver's voice was hoarse

three strikes, Deathcarver himself would be at a disadvantage. Hís technique, designed for short, decisive battles, allowed no room for prolonged combat. Each of his three strikes grew progressively more lethal, culminating in

for his

doesn't

of people have

forming an X. His eyes never left Matthew as every muscle beneath his straw cloak bulged,

"Final Cleave!"

the technique was as straightforward as its purpose either the opponent died, or

grip on the iron knife, his voice calm as he spoke. Three strikes... Not one of yours carried any real momentum.