The low kick came like a guillotine blade.
Shin met quadriceps with a wet, meaty crack—not a kick meant to look pretty, just to shred nerve and muscle. Thick Neck's leg folded like wet cardboard. He caught himself on the desk, snarling.
Phei kicked the same leg again. Same spot. Harder.
Thwack.
The muscle seized, deadened.
Again.
Thwack.
Again.
Thwack.
Each impact surgical, compounding, turning the leg into useless meat. Thick Neck's stance collapsed sideways, face contorted, trying to punch through the pain anyway—wild, desperate, off-balance.
Phei stepped inside the arc.
Too close for big arms to work.
Hand snapped to the back of Thick Neck's skull—fingers knotting in hair—yanked down while his knee drove up into solar plexus. Once. Air exploded out in a choked wheeze. Twice. Ribs flexed inward. Three times. Body folding like wet paper.
Then the knee lifted higher—crisp, upward arc—and smashed into Thick Neck's nose.
Cartilage gave with a sharp, wet crunch.
