Mayan Moon [ONC2024]

Chapter 13

There is no chivalry in a brawl, especially when outnumbered five to one. Roger's punch cut through the air, a swift whoosh barely audible before impact. Yet as his fist moved at a blur, his opponent spun with equal swiftness, parrying the blow—a stark reminder of the imminent danger.

He almost stumbled; the guard's reflexes were formidable, blocking quickly and firmly. Roger sensed the air shift as the others converged, their movements a well-rehearsed symphony of aggression, tightening their circle with predatory precision.

Might have needed to think this through. Too late now!

Roger seized the offensive, exchanging rapid strikes with the first guard. Their dance was a visceral blend of motion and counter-motion, a ballet of potential pain. Roger's focus sharpened to a razor's edge as he sought to inflict damage while sidestepping the looming threats.

Sweat beaded his brow, adrenaline sour in his mouth. He ducked under a wild swing and countered with a low kick, the thud against his opponent's shin satisfying. Yet, as he fought, his mind raced—each decision split-second, each movement critical.

His Ch'ulel flowed, probing for a weakness, a flaw to exploit, but they were met with a wall—something he had only experienced while training with his grandfather.

Do not push. Surround and embrace. Meld and feel. The echoes of his grandfather's lessons resounded.

A misstep from the third guard was all Roger needed. He pivoted, kicking not where the man was but where he would be. The satisfying crunch of impact was followed by the guard's collapse. Yet, the victory was short-lived as his original opponent swept his legs, sending him tumbling. Only a feline-like twist saved him from crashing face-first.

Regaining his footing with the grace of a dancer, he faced the remaining four, their eyes gleaming with malice. They charged, synchronized. Roger dodged, weaving through them, touching and moving, a ghost among shadows.

The fight escalated. He tasted blood from a cut lip and winced from a kidney punch that almost blacked him out. He knew better than to get cornered again.

Suddenly, their demeanor changed; from each of their hands, brass claws gleamed under the moonlight.

"Take him alive," the woman's voice echoed from a distance, chilling in its detachment.

The guards renewed their assault with increased ferocity. Roger's movements became sluggish; fatigue and pain melded into his senses. He dodged an arm swipe but couldn't escape a vicious kick that sent him sprawling onto his back.

The cold metal of a tiger claw pressed against his throat, three blades threatening to pierce skin. Above him, the woman approached, her voice filled with a twisted joy.

"Welcome, grandson. It's nice to see you again after so many years." She looked at him with disdain.

"Tie him up and put him in the plane with the rest!"