Live And Die By The Sword

If Femi had seen what had made him fall onto his front, he would have been livid. Would have been impossible to get even more so, especially when it’s in the subject of that dammed woman in black, but there were still limits meant to be broken. Truth be told, if he wasn’t this angry at Saif, he could have described the aptly named Hidden Blade as if he was struck with a bat. The Nigerian-Irishman knew all too well how even individual limbs can be dangerous, even deadly when used to attack a specific place. With his arms, one punch was enough to take Saif down. Another could have put her out for good. Such power doesn’t come overnight, and while an average person could get lucky with a well-timed punch, taking a shot from a boxer can be lethal. Many would have seen the muscles upon muscles that he had with those arms.

That same idea can be taken with the lower body. Considering there are the stronger muscles in the body, a well-placed kick could befall a titan like Femi himself.

Then again, Momentum hasn’t seen much in terms of attacks with the lower body. The brand is now blessed with a demonstration just how devastating a kick can be compared to a punch. Although it could come with the Asterix that such attack struck him from behind, the results speak for itself. Femi groaned, feeling both the front and back of his neck being hit by two different attacks in the space of moments. The man hacked and coughed out, even more so once Saif began walking over his body. A foot on his spine, another on his ribs. There was probably a poor sap that would have gotten off from such trampling, but not Femi. Granted, he could somewhat endure it, unlike Grant…

And that is when he remembered the sight of Saif walking all over his trainer. That image burned into his psyche, seeing him writhing in pain as she stepped on him.

Femi blinked, seeking the canvas that he was laying on. He didn’t really pay much attention to what Saif said at first, mostly letting the image of his hurt trainer spur him on in rage. Although Saif was perched on top of him like a bird of prey, Femi wasn’t going to take it. He gritted his teeth hard, trying to push his chest off the ground. That was going to be difficult with the stiff pain around that one arm of his. He flopped. But he got up again. “F…uCK…yOu…” The Nigerian-Irishman snapped his head to the side away from her hand, soft as it was. His one arm began to press down to the canvas, his legs shifting to get his knees underneath if possible. Although the referee would have counted him out already, Femi wasn’t accepting that he failed. Until he was knocked out, until he was broken, until he couldn’t walk, until he couldn’t rise up, Femi wasn’t giving up.

Stubborn pride. In another life, Saif remembered a movie with a quote about that, how pride never helped, only hurt. How it would do no one any good, and how letting it go was the true path to progress. Even now, those words came back to her as something reminiscent of profound. A truth that she had come to learn and accept all too well in her new form. And what was the point of knowledge, if not to be shared?

Femi was the perfect example, one that she could use to show the entire world. His skill, his strength, his resilience were all the stuff of legends. With a pedigree like his, he would not be easily cowed...but it was possible. She certain of it.

Even now, as she walked along his body like a carpet, he made a vain, fruitless attempt to rise. His fire was mostly out, but embers still lingered, and she knew they would grow to an open flame once again if left to smolder. Inspiring, in a way. Foolish, in another.

”Your tongue still has venom, I see. You will not listen. Very well.” She straightened up, maintaining her balance even as he began to rise. ”I will simply make it so that all you can do is listen.”

And those were her only words, her only warning, before she went into action. Saif ducked down, then leaped straight up off of Femi’s back, giving him the freedom he no doubt craved, but it would come with a horrible price. She tucked her legs in as she jumped, then extended them as she descended, driving her heel down into the back of his skull with all her weight and smashing her head into the canvas.

A brutal move for a brutal foe.

Stubborn, brave, foolish…it didn’t really matter much whatever they would call Femi. He wasn’t going to stand down and accept defeat.

In many ways, it was somewhat needed in the boxing world. It was that warrior’s spirit, that drive, the determination to get back up when you are knocked down. Because it all comes down to that one punch that would turn the tides in his favour. The Nigerian-Irishman has been in such situations before, and while the circumstances were different, it was still the same. Femi’s chest began to rise off the floor, even with Saif on her back like a bird standing on an elephant. He always had strength. The crowd had feared for the worst since Saif has shown that she can befall someone like him with the tools she has in her disposal. It wasn’t as if Femi was dismissive of Saif’s skill either. It was just that he didn’t want to accept he lost. You fight until you can’t do so anymore.

Which can be both a good thing and a bad thing at the same time.

This was the reason why they had referees in the first place. To protect a fighter from getting any life-altering injuries. Going out on your shield may be admirable to some, but it can also be foolish. Negligent. And in this position, Saif had no qualms in continuing her gospel of violence. There was no referee or official to separate the fighters away from each other before going back to action. And that meant that nothing was stopping her from kicking an opponent while they are down.

Or in this case, stomping an opponent while they were down.

His efforts to raise would be in vain. Just as Femi was making some reasonable distance from the floor, Saif would destroy such progress. A stomp to the head is dishonourable in most sanctioned competitions, but this is far from one. The Nigerian-Irishman felt the weight of Saif leave his back, which made him rise up even more. But the more significant the distance meant, the bigger the damage taken from the decent. Just like Saif’s Hidden Blade, her feet struck him from behind, where he wouldn’t even expect.

An audible crunching sound would have been heard as soon as his face was fallen straight to the canvas. Femi’s head would have bounced off the floor, had it not been Saif standing on top of it, with all of his weight pushing down on his skull. His body went limp, his arms splayed out. Only a slight groan would have been heard from him. No venom was given to her. And no movement would be seen from the Nigerian-Irishman as he stared blankly at the canvas.

Saif came up, came down, and destroyed Femi’s world. It only took one simple jump.

There were no words that could adequately describe the finality of what occurred to Femi, nothing that could do it justice. Watching life fly out of a body such as this, one brimming with untold power and made for unmatched destruction, was a rare sight. He wasn’t dead, wasn’t even close to being that far gone, not even truly unconscious, but the fight had left him. She could feel his movements turn to nothing beneath her feet, as she perched on his skull. He would not be getting up from this anytime soon. His body would take hours to recover, and his ego might never do so.

The fight was over, done, but they were far from finished. Physically, he was finished, but now began the spiritual battle.

She stepped off his battered body and began to walk around it, lovingly surveying the wreck she made and taking care not to trip over his splayed arms. While his form could not compare to her Master’s, it was lovely nonetheless, and she could not deny some small amount of longing for it. She stopped at his side and stretched her leg out, running her toes along his spine and tracing the contours along his muscular skin. Saif prodded his shoulder bone, then slid down to his biceps, poking it for any response and finding nothing.

Satisfied with her work, she continued to walk around him, giving Femi a few moments to collect some semblance of coherence. She paid close attention to his face as she moved, looking for any responses. She wanted him aware for what came next. Needed understanding.

The moment she saw what she wanted, she stopped above his head, letting her shadow cast over his magnificent form. With an elbow in her palm and a finger on her chin, she stared down at him, her features a blank mask. Not taunting, not teasing, but thinking and considering, until she settled on how best to proceed.

It only took her a few seconds to make her decision. She extended her foot, planted it right in front of his mouth, and gave a simple order.

”Worship.”

There’s perhaps more to Femi that Saif destroyed. Some more literal than most.

Tough as he was, and that is saying something, nobody was going to recover from that. The moment when she mushroom stomped on Femi’s head, there was no longer any doubt that the man was getting up from this. It did take Saif to throw everything and the kitchen sink at him for the Nigerian-Irishman to stay down. Most would have freaked out with his seemingly cockroach-level durability, the fact that he was able to peel his body off the floor after being hit in the back of the head and many other things Saif threw at him was commendable. But Saif just kept the belief that even a man as big as he is can fall. It wouldn’t be as simple, but eventually, it did.

Physically, it was over. Psychologically and spiritually though, he was far from it.

The best way to describe it was that Femi’s body was still fighting, but is still awaiting orders from his brain. He’s built for competition, created to fight at the highest level. The toughest sometimes finish in this way. Which was why Femi didn’t tense up as soon as Saif’s foot would trace along his body, working up to the spine that she stood on, to the shoulder bone, then the bicep, right where his Celtic tattoo was. All of this and Femi didn’t respond. It wasn’t until she’d stop over his head, the shadow of the black-clad woman looming over him.

Which helped when he’d finally snap out of that coma he was in. Femi didn’t think about the copper taste in his mouth, one that came from the blood flowing from his broken nose, bone sticking out in a way that isn’t supposed to naturally. Saif at least inadvertently had the mercy to not let his first sight be the blinding lights that illuminated the ring above them. Though the Nigerian-Irishman would have preferred this than what was actually greeted with.

"Nhhh..."

Unintentionally, his lips moved, but it was but a murmur. The kind where someone would do once they wake up. The order was given to him, an order which wasn’t adequately processed in his mind and Saif would be met with a confused look. A look that can be interpreted in many ways. But one sure thing is that Femi didn’t abide by the orders of the ‘victor’.

If Saif were being realistic, she was expecting too much from Femi at this point. She had just dealt the man a hellish blow, one that would’ve left lesser opponents unconscious for hours, if not longer. He certainly had some kind of injury from that. Perhaps a concussion. There was no way he was in anything resembling a sane, coherent state of mind, and it was likely that he lacked the mental faculties to process what she had commanded, much less act on them in any real, meaningful way.

A husk, in other words.

But to her, he was more than that - Saif saw his body as a blank canvas, one that she could now use for her will. Clay that could be molded in her fingers, so long as she had the strength to manipulate it. She was doing to him as had been done to her, breaking her down to her lowest point and, in her place, creating something new. Something grand.

”I see.” She raised her offered foot and planted it on the back of his skull, applying slow pressure to the spot she’d so brutally struck a moment ago, no doubt making him relive some of that pain. ”Pride still has you in its grips. Still controls you.” She raised her other foot off the ground and raised her heel off of his head, letting all her weight come down on a small spot as she stood there, perfectly balanced.

When that moment passed, she stepped on his back again, taking only a moment to wipe her feet clean along his shoulder blades before she turned back towards his head and sat down on his spine. Saif extended her legs and pulled his arms - his powerful, strong, devastating, useless arms - between them.

”I will do away with the pride that binds you, Femi.” She crossed her ankles and began to power down, pulling his arms in directions they were never meant to go as she cranked the Lotus Lock. ”I will set you free.”

Truth be told, it was never going to happen. Even if the Nigerian-Irishman was cognizant enough and still had his wits together. A simple case of asking too much too soon, one that even a fledgeling, rookie dominatrix would know not to make that mistake. Mind you, Femi isn't in the best condition, but even if he was, he would still object. Sure, Tension is chock full of guys who seemingly go in with some secret desire to get their asses kicked. Or to put it more bluntly, get dominated. They'd have no shame, no qualms, nothing stopping them from opposing any sick fantasy the opponent has for them. Femi, however, has not been used to this kind of world. Neither gods nor men would ever compel him to debase himself like that. In short, Femi would never bring himself that low to go through any humiliating act.

The problem is that while mentally and spiritually, he'd object, physically, however, he could not. And when neither are in harmony with one another, there isn't much he can do about it. He can't walk away at his own accord. Neither can he deck this woman to the ground for even thinking that was going to fly. In other words, he really was just a husk.

Regardless wherever he has the mental capacity to object or not, this still brought consequences as the proverbial prisoner of war. It was simple: don't do the task, you get punished. That lesson was somewhat transparent, pain is the greatest teacher a human could have. Saif went back to being perched on Femi's head, luckily he had his head to the side once she applied her full weight to the top of his skull. "Ghh! Nnnngghhh....Hrrnnnggg...." With the condition that he's in, Saif wouldn't have much problem balancing. The Nigerian-Irishman wasn't going to be moving anytime soon. At least, excluding the contracting muscles, the little writhing underneath. He groaned, blood still flowing through his nose as he grits his teeth. His glassy eyes looked at the audience watching nearby, knowing he wasn't getting any help from them.

A snort came out in tandem with his fingers slowly closing into fists. Weirdly, the emotion anger was still there, a seed that still remains in this vessel. But that wasn't really enough to get them to move. He had to endure what sick torture Saif is putting him through. But the fire inside never truly extinguished. Eventually, the weight would shift from his head to his back yet again—a slight relief, but one that won't last forever. Instead of standing on his back, she'd sit on it. And instead of targeting the head, Saif was moving towards another target.

His arms.

He couldn't comprehend as to what Saif had in store for both of his arms this time, instead of just one lone arm in regards to the armbar. With how muscular he is, his flexibility could only go so far. But that didn't stop her from bringing them past the point of comfort, Saif would notice some stiffness here and there, but where her arms wouldn't do the trick, her legs will. "Nrrrrrghhh!!" A louder groan came from the man as he felt the strain starting to pour in, his arms feeling like they were tied behind his back. No matter how much he could flex and resist, his arms can't resist Saif's muscular legs. Even in full strength, Femi would have massive trouble trying to part those legs apart like this. In truth, he was helpless. Utterly helpless. Nothing can save him now.

It was like taking the wings off a butterfly.

Not that Saif had ever done that, even before her ascension, when she was still Kim. But she had seen it done before, during a summertime visit her grandmother in South Korea. One of her cousins was a young, inquisitive boy with an interest insects, and for whatever reason he thought it would be funny to pluck the wings off an unfortunate butterfly that had landed nearby during a picnic. That had been decades ago, but even now, she could still remember the way it had limped around, twitching, trying to flap wings that it no longer had. She doubted that such a lowly creature could experience such emotions as sadness and despair, but if it could…

Femi would be able empathize, before her time was through. To know what it was like to have something so integral to your being stripped away. To be left as a husk.

Saif’s legs tensed, surging with raw power. Sinews enlarged, her muscles swelled, tendons stretched. It was here that anyone who cared to see such things could compare the differences between who she was and who she was now, note the definition below her waist that she had lacked before. While she had never neglected her legs, time with her Master had greatly improved the power she could generate with them, a fact that Femi would no doubt attest to if he were still capable of coherent speech. It was an interesting comparison, pitting her greatest limbs against his, putting the result of their training against each other.

But, in the end, it was legs against arms. There was no true contest. It was not a question of if she could break him like this, but if she wanted to, and that was yet to be determined.

Looking to increase his distress, she further displayed her process by crossing her legs even further, putting her legs into a figure-four position and stretching him further than he had likely ever been, farther than Femi knew he could go himself. Like this, she could exert more pressure still, and she did so increments. Her muscles would tense, contract, then force his arms closer still, all while she laid back and let herself relax against his quaking body.

And there was one, final, interesting benefit as well - this variation of the Lotus Lock placed her foot near Femi’s face, close enough to rub her toes along his chin, while she repeated her demand.

”Worship.”

A method of torture that involved destroying his arms – the same components needed to fight with and to win. It was as if this was another circle of hell made for him.

It sure as hell felt like that, being bent in a way that, crushed between a pair of thighs no bigger than his biceps. All the joints that connected from the shoulder and elbows felt the pressure, stretched past the point of comfortability. Femi would like to believe that at full strength, he could have pried them off and broke the hold. Saif’s legs were strong, but they weren’t his arms. It only took one blow compared to the multitude of Saif to take her down. So this would be a cinch. At least, that is what he thought initially. Goes to show how little he knew when it came to holds like these.

He could only mentally curse at the ones that created such submissions.

Muscular as they are, there wasn’t anything the Nigerian-Irishman’s arms could do in this position. They don’t have enough leverage to push back, and Saif’s legs needed to be strong enough to keep them in place. As it turns out, they were much stronger. Way stronger. When he isn’t doing his best to resist, Femi felt those thighs surge with the power it had. The swell of the muscles, the enlargement of sinews, it was no wonder why that Switchblade kick was so potent. Femi can agree this wasn’t a valid contest between legs versus arms. This was far from being a fair competition where he’d had a chance.

In short, he was fucked. He couldn’t do anything at all. He was indeed…helpless. Man, that was hard to say.

Compounded even more as Saif’s leggy prison turned into a fortress. Femi never knew that a slight tweak to the variation could bring so much more pain that was even possible. He yelled, even more, the toes of his shoes thumped on the canvas. If only he had real boxing shoes. His muscles stretched wat too much as if they were starting to rip at the seams. The more she increased, the more they were beginning to break. His fists tightened if only to just resist. But it may be doing more harm than good. Of course, Saif didn’t think that this was the cherry on top. A foot was rubbing his chin while he struggled underneath. He heard the word again, only this time, the pain made him cognizant than before. Only this time, she’d actually get an answer-back.

“Fuck…you…” Femi said as he spat on the very thing she wanted worshiped. It would have been his answer before, and would still be his answer now.

How simple it was to destroy a man. The things that made up the human body were not so strong. Bones broke so easily. Skin? Any sharp knife could slice its way through. A jolt to the head and you got a concussion. Too much pressure on the neck and you stopped breathing. It would never cease to amaze Saif how weak the mortal shell could be when it took the right amount of damage in the right way at the right time. Just a little here and there and then…

Snap.

Femi would serve as a prime example. To look at them, to compare her legs to his arms, who would imagine that she could do to him what she was, that she could tear into his body and stretch his sinews in such a way. But she could. Her limbs were lethal for kicking and crushing - she had demonstrated the former, now she would do so with the latter.

His scathing words didn’t faze her - all they did was make her sigh, like a mother with her unruly child. It was adorable in much the same way, seeing this futile defiance. The mess of his pride was not yet swept away, but she was certainly making progress.

”Fuck...me?” She repeated the words in a whisper, barely heard over the raging crowd, as her feet continued you to stroke his chin. She moved them along his lips, albeit briefly, strongly suspecting that he would try to bite them if given the chance. No, she only wanted to savor that sensation for an instant. ”You only harm yourself, Femi. This pride of yours, this hubris will only hold you back. I had hoped that you would learn this lesson already, but I can see now that you require further instruction.” Her words darkened, becoming a hiss in the wind. ”So be it.”

That was the only warning she gave before she ramped up the pressure even more, truly exerting herself. She tensed her legs and forced Femi’s arms together, closer and closer, bit by bit. She would relax every few moments or so, given him the smallest reprieve, then tensed again and give him even more pain than before. Closer. Closer. Closer. To the edge, to the breaking point, until he screamed…

Then and only then, when he was close to losing his two precious limbs, would she repeat demand.

”Worship.”