Your opponent lunges forward, their gaze fierce, unyielding. 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.
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 as if it’s drawing breath, a final, brutal statement etched in blood and cold steel.
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