A leaf crunching underfoot?—
There.
My grin widens.
Amateur.
The first attacker comes from my left—big, heavy, telegraphing his movement like he's never learned subtlety. I hear the displacement of air as he swings something blunt. A bat, maybe. Or a metal pipe.
Doesn't matter.
The second comes from my right—lighter step, faster, probably thinks speed will make up for lack of skill.
It won't.
The third hangs back slightly—smart enough to let the others engage first.
Not smart enough to run.
My hands move to the sheaths behind my back with practiced ease, fingers finding the leather-wrapped handles of my dual blades. The weight is perfect, familiar,mine—custom-balanced for my height and fighting style, sharpened until they could split silk falling through air.
I pull them free in one fluid motion, the metal singing as it leaves the sheaths.
My eyes are still closed.
I don't need to see to know where they are.
The first attacker swings—I hear the whistle of metal through air—and I drop.
Not backwards.
Not to the side.
Down.
Into a full split that makes my hip flexors scream, my hamstrings burn, and sends me sliding between their legs like I'm made of water instead of bone and rage.
My left blade comes up as I descend?—
—and sinks into the first attacker's inner thigh with a wetschlockthat sounds like poetry.
Femoral artery.
He'll bleed out in under two minutes.
My right blade arcs wide as I continue the motion—catching the second attacker across both Achilles tendons with enough force to slice through leather, skin, and tendon.
They drop.
Both of them.
Screaming.
Delicious.
I'm already moving.
The split transitions into a roll, my body remembering choreography drilled into muscle memory since childhood.
