(42) Akranhor's Attack

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        Akranhor had the instinct to stab the former General and be done. But he held it it.. .. .. . barely.

 “And I see you’ve ruined my village.” Akranhor growled, his anger raged inside him, his hand instinctively reached for his knife from his strap.

“Why don’t you strike me down?” Tesulan managed a weak smile, “I used up all my strength. I’m dead, nothing’s really stopping me getting knocked out myself.”

 Akranhor glared at the boy, he really had fight, his entire body was covered in blood, his left eye was shut and blood leaked from his head, nose, mouth. He had scratches, wounds, cuts, bruises, and dirt stains all over his coat and body. Half his armor was burned, smoke trailed from his body as if he was in the middle of a fire. Even, as he stood still, he leaked a trail of blood pooling around him. He was in no better condition than the prince.

 Akranhor smiled, “I may be an assassin, but I’m an assassin of honor. Yet, I can’t dismiss the fact you teared down my village, and took down my prey for me. I take down my prey myself, that’s the fun in the game, and you destroyed my village, and still manage to stand from your fight. You mere existence is an insult to my dignity. You have a deathwish, foolish boy.”

 “And? What are you going to do about it?” He taunted.

  Akranhor raised his eyebrows, the stupid child must half delirious, or else he wouldn’t act so bold.

   “I’m going to beat the crap out of you, that’s what I’ll do.” Akranhor hissed, and slipped on his brass knuckles, he was going to savor each blow dealt to this stupid creature. There was no need to kill him so hastily, this one will deserve a long, painful death.

   His first blow nearly disconnected Tesulan’s jaw, he heard a loud crack, as he punched through bone, the boy coughed up a load of blood and rolled to the ground. His assassins and bandits gave the boy a sympathetic look.

 “Harden your hearts, men. Your going to be ordered to kill far worse than scum like him.” Akranhor barked. He had been born for one purpose: the killing in other lives. He had first held a knife when he was young, about the age of a simple-minded toddler, full of such innocence yet expected much of. He had been ordered to kill an innocent dog. From that day, his heart had become cold as stone as he began to kill others and others until he felt no emotion whatsoever and found himself enjoying the murder of others. Soon after his entire life he had lived with that purpose. Whatever, purpose in life could there be for him? He had no other. And there was no turning back now.

 He dealt another heavy blow to the boy. This one harder than the other, the next even harder until a large pool of blood thickened around him. He picked the child up, his cloak covered in a crimson spray of blood. Akranhor tightened his fist. This blow would be the last.

 Akranhor struck, and his fist made contact. But with the wrong target. Akranhor growled, and pulled his fist away from the prince.

 The prince had actually thrown himself, and took a hit for the boy.

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