The trainer looks at his trainees and glances back at us. He lifts his arm to the sky; the sleeve hanging. Wordlessly, he drops his hand, slicing the air. Taking it as the signal, we all take off in a sprint. Vince targets Zuriel with a murderous rage in his eyes, target narrowing into a single point of focus.
The novices calmly remain where they are. Soon. We collide.
A novice slams a fist at my chest—I knock it aside with my bandaged forearm. My other hand seizes his wrist, twisting it in my grip—he frees a pained yelp. Distracted by his pain, I heave him towards me and I launch my knee into his gut. He snaps bent. And I use the momentum to flip him over my shoulder as he drops on the ground with a bone-cracking thud.
I dart past him, rushing to the rack.
My breath snags—rough hands capture me from behind, arms coiling taut around me as I'm ripped off my intended trajectory. A novice hoists my thrashing self off my feet.
