Gethii settled into a combat stance, the sword feeling balanced in his hand. He focused, channeling the ase he usually reserved for powerful strikes into a more fluid, defensive posture. The two black-cloaked figures mirrored his stance, their movements unnervingly fluid and quick.
The first bodyguard lunged, a blur of motion. Gethii parried, the force of the blow jarring his arm. He countered with a projectile air pressure strike, a focused burst of displaced air that battered his opponent, disrupting his follow-through. The bodyguard staggered but recovered with inhuman speed, twisting away from a subsequent thrust.
The second bodyguard attacked from the side, a whirlwind of steel. Gethii spun, deflecting the strike and using the momentum to launch a sweeping arc of his own. He strengthened his strike, feeling the power surge through him, the air around the blade shimmering with contained force. The bodyguard blocked, and the blow connected with a force that sent a shockwave through the throne room, cracking the marble floor. It was a boulder-crushing blow and would have shattered bone, but the bodyguard, impossibly, absorbed the impact and was already moving again.
Gethii realized he was facing opponents unlike any he had encountered before. Their speed was almost supernatural, their movements too precise, too efficient. He fought with a desperate intensity, weaving a tapestry of swordplay, mixing his air pressure strikes with his augmented strength, pushing his body to its limits.
He disengaged, creating a small distance between them. Both bodyguards pressed their attack, moving in perfect synchronization. Gethii, despite being outnumbered and fighting with a single arm, held his ground. He anticipated their strikes, parried with incredible precision, and countered with a ferocity that pushed them back.
He saw an opening, a momentary lapse in their coordination. Gethii unleashed a barrage of blows, each strike carrying the force of a charging elephant. He disarmed one bodyguard with a well-placed parry and a follow-up strike that sent the sword spinning across the room. He then used a projectile air pressure strike to knock the other bodyguard off balance.
Gethii pressed his advantage. He moved in for the final blow, his sword aimed at the chest of the remaining bodyguard. The bodyguard, though injured, was still incredibly fast. She tried to dodge, but Gethii was faster.
Victory was within his grasp.
Suddenly, a series of sharp cracks echoed through the throne room. Gethii's sword flew from his hand, the force of the impact sending a shockwave up his arm. He looked towards the king, who was standing, his hand outstretched, a pair of small, ornate, light-bullet handguns smoking in his grip. The King had shot his sword away.
"I said survive them, not kill them," the King snarled, his voice tight with barely suppressed rage. He sounded even more furious now that his bodyguards were injured. The faint hum of the light-handguns in his hands intensified.
"Pick up the sword. You're up against me now."
Gethii dropped into a kneeling position, his head bowed. Every instinct screamed at him to stay down, to not provoke the King further. With the amount of ase he had already used there was no chance he'd last more than a few seconds with the King. "I apologize, Your Majesty," he said, forcing his voice to sound as contrite as possible. "It was a crippling blow I intended, not a killing one."
"Pick up the sword," the King repeated, his voice dangerously low. The light-handguns in his hands began to glow faintly, the air around them shimmering with contained energy. Everyone in the throne room was on edge.
"Your Majesty, you said you would let us go if I survived your guards," Gethii said quickly, desperately trying to defuse the situation. He knew, with a chilling certainty, that he wouldn't survive a direct confrontation with the King. "You are a man of your word, are you not?"
The words, instead of calming the King, seemed to enrage him further. His eyes flashed with fury. He moved with a speed that Gethii couldn't track, the light-handguns spitting bolts of pure energy.
Gethii awoke in chains, the cold, damp stone of a dungeon floor pressing against his battered body. The pain was all-encompassing. Every bone felt as if it were not outright broken, then certainly bruised. His head throbbed, his vision blurry, and his arm ached with a deep, throbbing agony. He was a broken ruin of his former self.
The King's words echoed in his mind, each syllable a fresh wave of torment: "You're right. I am a man of my word. You'll live. And you'll wish you were dead every day of your life."