Chapter 162: The Enraged Grandfather
Fists hurtled toward her from every direction—wild, desperate, relentless. But Lara was a blur of movement, gliding between the blows with a grace that defied belief. Her footwork was poetry in motion, a hypnotic display of balance and agility, each step landing with precision and purpose.
To her attackers, she moved like a phantom, untouchable and elusive. Punches whistled past her ears, slicing through the air where she had stood a heartbeat before. It was as if time itself bent to her rhythm, allowing her to weave through the chaos with serene fluidity, a masterful dance amid madness.
Every movement she made was calculated, elegant—an artist crafting a deadly ballet on the battlefield. The mercenaries threw everything they had at her, only to strike empty air and each other. Their confusion deepened with every miss, frustration gnawing at the edges of their control.
Lara smirked. "Ha. And here I was, worried that fatigue might slow me down and their punches would heat me. I am worried for nothing."
But even brilliance has blind spots.
Someone grabbed her, yanking her off balance. Then her back slammed against a tree, and another layer of rope was put on her. They tied her up at a tree.
Lara: "..."
"Now," sneered one of the injured mercenaries, stepping forward with blood trickling down his cheek, "let me see if you can still dodge this."
He cocked his arm back. The punch coming toward her was brutal, raw with fury. It was aimed to disfigure, to break her spirit and her face in one crushing blow.
But it never landed.
A blur of white descended from the tree branch above. A flash of motion so fast it was barely seen, only felt. A gust of wind. A whisper of movement.