Forget being fancy. As soon as your opponent lunges forward, you hurl the ax with precision. It embeds in their forehead, freezing them mid-step as blood explodes towards you. They collapse, the ax handle slightly sliding as the weight of the blade pulls it down, leaving the brutal mark of finality in blood and steel.
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Without hesitation, you grip the ax, feeling its weight settle in your hand, solid and ready. You pull back with a swift, calculated motion, momentum gathering like a coiled spring on the verge of snapping. The blade catches a glint of light, a cold warning too fleeting for your opponent to notice. You release, and the ax slices through the air with a deadly precision, a whispering promise that explodes into a sickening, thudding impact. You are not one for words, speeches, puns, and overthinking anything. You execute.
Their eyes widen, shock freezing their face as the blade buries deep into their forehead. Blood splatters outward in a violent spray, droplets momentarily suspended like dark jewels before they fall. Your opponent staggers, almost as if pulled by invisible strings, held upright by the force of the blow. Their knees begin to buckle, rigidity melting away as they collapse, the handle of the ax swaying slightly, an eerie aftershock of the strike.
A faint, choking gasp escapes their lips—a sound that could be surprise, agony, or even betrayal—before silence engulfs the space. The room is still, dense with the raw scent of iron, the ax quivering in their forehead. They wobble as their momentum moves them forward like a drunk unicorn. They inhale for the last time as the frontal cortex of their brain shuts down. The blade crunches further into their head as they hit the floor. Who’s next?
