The grip on my ankle was a shackle of bone and desperation. Mrs. Honda, a woman who usually fussed over dress code violations and late homework, was now a snarling beast on the floor, her fingernails digging through my leggings, seeking skin.
"No running!" she shrieked, the words bubbling up through a throat raw from screaming.
I didn't have time for hesitation. I didn't have time for pity.
"Forgive me, Sensei," I whispered.
I didn't kick her face. That would be lethal with my current strength stats. Instead, I stomped down hard on the radial nerve of her forearm. It was a surgical strike, guided by the [Combat Mastery (A)] flooding my brain.
There was no crack of bone, just a dull thud. Her hand spasmed open instantly, the neural signal overrides by a white-hot flash of paralysis.
I was free.
"Liza, move!" I roared, grabbing her by the back of her blazer and hauling her upright.
