Live And Die By The Sword

Grant would admit that while Femi is prone to making mistakes once or twice, he’s a man that would eventually wisen up to it. It’s like a child that is beginning to learn what to do and what not to do. He isn’t going to have the common sense to avoid such situations at first, but with experience, Femi gets better. In the world of boxing, especially in super-heavyweight, one mistake can cost you, especially taking a full power punch from a trained boxer. Femi was only lucky his jaw hasn’t been ‘cracked’. Some could take on all sorts of hits, and then some get folded after a single well-placed punch. Femi liked to think that he was in the former than the latter.

That being said, the Nigerian-Irishman has had enough blows from Saif. She was just as annoying as he thought he would be. It wasn’t as if Saif was cheating, Femi agreed to let Saif do whatever she wants versus being locked in on using punches. Then again, it would have taken longer to find the right-sized gloves for this woman. And Femi doubted she had any underneath that skirt of hers. Saif was no magician. But with the way she dodges his punches, she might as well be. He failed to realise the seemingly limitless potential when it came to not being limited to one style. Or one body part of attacking. That was a fault on his part, Femi expected to get grilled by his trainer after this is done.

However, Saif can’t run away forever. Eventually, her luck would run out, and she would make a massive error. One that would be very costly as Femi landed an enormous blow to her skull. Saif could have tried something other than a spinning kick to his arms, and he probably wouldn’t have expected the change. Even the trickiest of fighters can slip up. And she was paying the price.

Femi wished he’d had put in even more power in that punch, but that seemed to have done the job. Her head seemed to bounce off the canvas before her body would come to rest—the long skirt fluttering before it would settle. His entourage gave massive cheers of approval. They all went to the summation that Saif only needed one punch, and she would be done. In a professional fight, the referee would have called off the match there and then, crowning Femi the victor. There would be the usual push back to the corner as the zebra separated both fighters. However, there wasn’t a referee, this wasn’t a standard match. So Femi would keep his eyes on Saif, still looming over her like the tallest mountain. His eyes stared onto the black-clad woman as if his eyes would suddenly shoot heat vision rays onto the back of her skull. The crowd of Yokohama knew one thing.

Femi wasn’t done.

He waited. And waited. And waited. Until Saif would start to come to. Good. He wanted her awake for what he had in mind. “Oi! Come on, wake up!!” Femi growled as he walked around Saif. As if he was stalking his wounded prey. The man then kicked her straight to the ribs with the intent to roll her onto her back. Once she did, Femi would press the sole of his boot onto his neck, putting a bit of pressure on it to pin her down.

It was dark. Quiet. Saif was in another place all of the sudden, pulled away from the world by Femi’s blow. Was she unconscious? Perhaps. She couldn’t remember the last time she had been knocked out like this, however. Not awake, but not sleeping, either. A limbo, separated from reality. But she was not alone here, however. There was a presence and a voice with her in the gloom, and that entity had but one thing to say.

Rise.

Saif came to with a start, eyes widening and closing tight an instant later, as her senses were flooded with stimulus. The crowd’s cheers and roars, the smell of sweat hanging thick in her nostrils, the rushing wind around her - a vibrant, breathing world. But she knew there would be little time to take it in. She needed to stand. Needed to fight.

She was well on her way to doing that, too, when a kick caught her in the side and flipped her over with ease, leaving her to flop about as she rolled. A boot came down on her neck not long after that, as this massive mountain of a man put pressure on her throat, choked her, restricted her windpipe with his hulking weight. A deadly, dangerous move, even with its simplicity, and one that could easily put her back to sleep as quickly as she’d been roused.

All of that, and Saif smiled.

She was suffering, yes, but she was suffering for Him, and with that, she could take solace. Arms out and to the side, she squirmed under his boot, but not in pain. She welcomed the suffering, knowing that it would show her devotion. She could endure. She could survive. She would not let this hardship break, but endure and come from it even stronger.

Femi wanted nothing more for this woman to start coming back to reality. His fists clenched even more inside of the leather gloves, the toe of the boot-tapping as he kept waiting. It was good that she’s down. Saif couldn’t be allowed to run circles around the man. But revenge isn’t going to be paid simply with a single punch. No matter how mighty his fists were, no matter how much Saif could take, the debt will be paid.

Of course, he could just do it on an unconscious victim. But with them separated from reality, it would merely be a cop-out. They aren’t cognizant of feeling every bit of punishment. They weren’t awake. Femi wasn’t kind to let Saif get that luxury. And soon enough, Saif was wide awake. A bit faster than he expected, but that was a good thing. He didn’t have to wait for too long.

The reprieve that Saif had gotten ended once her eyes opened and Femi wasted no time to roll her to her back where he could look into her eyes. The foot on her throat was a start, the amount of weight pushing onto that windpipe, threatening to crush it underneath the sole of his boot. He was expecting Something. The initial gasp for air, the struggling, the cries for help. He would get none, however. A completely different outcome that Femi wasn’t expecting. Saif was smiling.

She was smiling.

An inconceivable thought as he looked down at the small woman underneath him. His puzzled expression came first, then just as quickly indignation came. He had flashes of when Saif pressed both heels on Grant’s throat. And while Femi wouldn’t get the chance to see the trainer’s face behind the black veil, Femi was sure he wasn’t smiling. The Nigerian-Irishman’s rage grew, even more, those images being played out the more he stared at Saif. His body pressed down automatically as he seethed, ready to squash Saif like a bug. Did she simply have a death wish? Why did she get to smile when Grant, his trainer, his friend, his role model, gets to suffer?

This cannot stand.

Femi removed his foot from her neck, left utterly unsatisfied with this. That wasn’t going to work. Saif wasn’t meant to be smiling throughout this whole thing. This will not go the way Saif wanted to. “The fuck are you smiling at!?” A quick punt to the head of Saif just to vent his frustrations. But that wasn’t enough. “Something fucking funny, huh?! Huh!!?” His gloved hand reached to grip at her hair, yanking it harshly at the roots as Femi sought to make her rise a bit. Wherever she has the strength to stand or not. “Grant suffered because of you…My brethren suffered because of you…Don’t you even think you’ll be getting out of this lightly, I have no problem ending you right here, cunt.” The beast of a man snarled. “But I’m going to make sure you'll regret smiling at my face…” With that, Femi would throw a barrage of uppercuts to the body of Saif, keeping hold of her hair to stop her from falling. Without a referee, without his trainer, Femi was letting loose.

Her skull was rocked from the punch, her vision bleary.

Saif smiled

His foot crushed her windpipe, threatening to choke her out or do far worse.

And still, Saif smiled.

It was a thin, satisfied smile, one born from controlling and nullifying pain. She had been here before, after all. It was this pain that had brought her to Him in the first place, as she was ground to dust by his other servant. Having tasted that darkness before, it had no more power over her, no sting to threaten her with. She could tell from Femi’s expression that he was confused by her response, and that was understandable - there were still so many things he needed to learn before he could be properly enlightened. But she would get him there. On that much, she was confident.

It might be a moment, though, because Femi seemed bent on pouring out the punishment. Not content to let her rest even in this position, he gripped Saif by the hair and lifted her up, pulling her upright and forcing her body to comply on reflex. Saif grabbed his arm for support and braced herself, knowing there would be more punishment coming.

She was ready.

One. Two. Three uppercuts hammered her midsection, landing like cannonballs. Her stomach was solid, honed from years of training before and after Saif was born, but there was only so much she could endure before withering away to nothing. She had to counterattack.

As his arm moved back for another blow, she shot her legs up, narrowly avoiding the hellacios strike. Wrapping her legs around the arm that had her held, she hugged it tight and threw her all her weight into a twist, attempting to throw him off balance and come down in a flying armbar.

Where Femi came from, if you’re smiling after getting hurt, you either deserved more this badly, or you actually get off from this. Femi isn’t going to put it past her that she was in the latter part, but he is acting on the former. Femi isn’t going to allow Grant’s attacker to be smiling in his face after this. She’d be lucky if she would walk out of this arena with an inch of her life. That was hell, unlike any other.

There was no pleading from her, no sense of regret. Which would just make things even worse for the woman as Femi brought back his fist. His teeth gritted right to the point it could break, and his fist shakes with rage. He’d channel such anger into being used for his own power, maximizing the torture for Saif. His entourage cheered him on, all in the name of justice for Grant and his friend.

Femi threw his punch, and it could have gone through her spine.

Then another.

And then another.

If the Nigerian-Irishman cared to think, he’d notice that Saif’s abs were a bit harder than expected. Obviously, she was trained, and she had a better core than most boxers he’d knew. Even then, Saif’s abs weren’t built to soak in this much power for an extended period. No matter how solid her stomach was, the defences will decay beneath his closed fist. And Femi had no intention of stopping at the third, bringing it back for yet another blow. So Saif would have to be the one to bring a pause to it, something that Femi seemed unlikely.

How can he be so wrong three times already?

Her legs shot up from the ground, latching onto the large, muscular arm. The arm that was outstretched would be stretched some more as Femi felt the joint being pushed the wrong way. He wasn’t sure how it had happened, things have moved into a blur. It was only his fighting instincts to steady himself somewhat, the twist from Saif brought him down, however. But only to his knees as the freehand stopped him from falling face-first to the canvas. While Femi had the strength to give some resistance, Saif still had the leverage, his joints hyperextending past uncomfortable. His grunt of pain signified as such. Of course, she’d go for his arm, Femi shouldn’t have been surprised. But here we are.

Countering Femi’s move didn’t make her damage magically go away. Saif could still feel the phantom pain from his blow, her stomach aching all over, riddled with pain. Her muscles stung with every move she made, and there might have been some internal damage. Nothing serious, she was fairly sure, but it would not have been the worst idea to seek some medical examination after this. If Gilgamesh allowed it, of course.

But while it wasn’t a salve to her form, it was a generous boon to her piece of mind. There was something about felling a giant like this that filled her with uncommon joy, reminded her of Kim Rhee’s spirited days as a basement wrestler. It diedn’t matter how big her opponents were, how hard they could hit, nor the size of their muscles. With His help and guidance, she could grind them to a pulp.

Femi came down in a heap with her legs wrapped around his arm, in prime position. To his credit, he didn’t go all the way, managing to put a pause on his descent through raw power. She still had his most precious limb trapped, and was busy pulling it in a manner it was clearly never designed to go, but that would not be enough on its lonesome. She wanted to hurt him more. Wanted him flat.

She had tools for that, even in this unorthodox  position. She lift her leg, brought it back, and gave him a hard smack in the face with her heel. Again. And again. And again. As many times as it took for his body to get the message.

Femi has never seen an armbar, let alone be in one. Which makes sense, given that he is a boxer, sheltered from most other fighting styles. Already, his first experience with that infernal move was not a good one. He felt those joints creaking, his elbow bending in a way God didn’t intend. In its own world, this is a pretty ubiquitous hold, and yet to a boxer, this was dangerous. If only he could punch the guy that created it…

Amidst all the other issues Femi was facing, he was more surprised as to how she managed to quickly get that locked in. As far as he knows, Femi wasn’t pulling back his punches. He was really letting loose, not allowing anything to inhibit him from releasing his rage on Saif. He would have expected it from the first. Or maybe the second. By the time he’d got to the third, Femi was sure that her organs would have moved to their new positions.

Just who is this woman?

A question that is unimportant now, Femi needs to find a way to get out. The pain pretty much paralyzed him, still not getting over the shock of it all. Once her heel struck into his dome, it was like the reset button was hit and he’d return to his senses. To a sane person, the Nigerian-Irishman might as well tap out, and the hold is released. But there is no referee. And she doubted that she’d be satisfied by tap out. Regardless, Femi has taken many shots to the head before. And he wasn’t the type to think about his own safety when he’d that incensed. Femi is a big guy. A tank.

More specifically, a tank that still has one free arm.

His body refused to go down flat, pushing up to one knee before getting his feet under him. The Nigerian-Irish boxer hated that he was taking those shots to the head, but for what he had in mind, Femi was going for it. His free hand would come up before falling down like Odin’s lightning, seeking to smash his fist down Saif’s face. If he could get her stunned, Femi would then lift the black-clad woman up in the air, before sending her tiny body down to the mat with calamitous force.

Saif made sure to pull back on the armbar with all the force she could muster, wanting to maximize her time with it and inflict all the damage she could. In all likelihood, this would be the most important moment of the fight, the instant where she took away one of his two greatest weapons. While it certainly wouldn’t be enough for her to win the match completely, this was, perhaps the biggest step she could’ve taken towards a clean victory. After all, the mightiest trees couldn’t be felled in a single blow. It was a matter of time and pressure.

That hardly meant they were through here, though. Far from it. This tree was leaning, but still had a ways to go before it toppled.

Femi proved that amply with his hardy resistance, fighting back even as she pulled him into deeper torment. Her kicks were no small hits, enough to rattle most opponents, but he endured them all and kept forcing her way through the hold. She was cognizant of his free arm, and sure enough, he brought his artillery to bear, throwing a hellacious punch towards her face. She threw head to the side, narrowly avoiding the blow, but that didn’t mean she was out of danger - far from it, in fact.

He lifted her up with ease, hauled her high, and brought her crashing into the canvas in a terrible act of brutal power, one that made her instantly drop the hold. Realizing her poor position, Saif soldiered past the pain and kicked at his chest, hoping to make some distance between them and rise to his feet in a single, swift move, but she was under no delusions that it was a strong move. She simply needed to bide her time.

Strong and durable as he is, Femi still felt the strain around his arm. It was bending in a direction it wasn’t meant to turn and Saif was putting so much pressure on it as if her life depended on it. Considering how furious the Nigerian-Irishman is, that wouldn’t be farther from the truth. Every single thing, even down to the most straightforward thing of existing was enough to put fuel to the fire. She really was getting to him, that was as clear as the night sky above them.

It only compounded even more once his fist missed his target. With force he put into this punch, it was nearly enough to crack a hole into the canvas. Even with the leather glove, he was wearing. It was akin to punching at the ground in frustration. Just that it wasn’t his intention in the first place. “Stay fucking still!” He growled, getting tired of her scrambling around like a cockroach. Squishing this bug was too much then it needed to be. The only course of action was another blast, only one that will be felt around her body.

He lifted her up, which was no big feat considering the size difference there is between them. If Saif was that stubborn about keeping the torture on his arm, then she will feel the consequences soon enough, Femi unleashing a hellacious slam down to the ground. The smaller woman immediately dropped the hold, his arm finally free from his clutches. He hissed in pain, which went against him, wanting to show no tells towards Saif. But it can’t be helped. Saif got that much, but that was more than he will allow at this point.

The kick to the chest pretty much set him off as he grunted, snorting like a bull as she moved back a distance before she began rising to her feet. Under normal circumstances, Femi could at least commend Saif was tough. But this was annoying him further. A problem he must fix. So as Saif arose, Femi charged in. Saif has felt his power before and would no doubt be expecting a punch from Femi. If he had both arms still in peak condition, he could have gone with one, falling back to his peekaboo style. But with one arm still hurting, Femi changed tact.

Saif must be expecting punches. So, don’t give her punches.

Instead, Femi came out with a big boot towards the woman in black’s chest. It was far from graceful like Saif’s kicks earlier, but the Nigerian-Irishman made up for it with destructive power. And like his last punch to her head, that was more than enough.

”No.”

That was the only response Saif would give to Femi for his request, and an apt one at that. She had absolutely no intentions of staying still for this man, and knew the disastrous results that would occur if she gave him too much of a target to work with. She had already felt his power once, knew the danger he posed, as if his visage wasn’t enough of a warning in itself. She would be taking every advantage she could find and giving none in return. This would not be the man who broke her - only One could claim that honor.

The threat he posed forced her to drop the hold, and she was treated to the sound of his pain, an audible reaction. A small thing, but one she would gladly accept - it was a sure sign that she was having some effect on him, after all. The kick she retaliated with didn’t move him back nearly as far as she would’ve liked, but given the circumstances, she would have to settle. Any distance from him was an improvement at the moment.

He seemed to realize this, too, moving in with swift feet to close the gap. She rose quickly, but not quickly enough to avoid his wrath, and it came in a form she wasn’t expecting. On reflex, she raised her arms in anticipation of a punch, but there were no rules binding him to that sort of attack anymore than there were for her. His attack came in the form of a boot planted on her chest, sending her small, slender body back hard into the nearby corner.

If not for the turnbuckle, she would’ve collapsed on the spot. As it was, she was able to lean against it and stay standing on wobbly knees, though how long that would hold was anyone’s guess. Gasping, she grabbed the ropes over both sides and stayed standing even after that hellacious hit, hoping she would be in a decent enough condition to weather whatever came her way next.