[ And here he'd figured if he could just manage once more swing of the mace, if he could land just one more blow, this whole affair would be done and over with. All the effort it had taken to manage the one grueling swing of that heavy weapon would be worth it.
So when that ends up not being the case, he's not sure what pisses him off more -- the fact that he has to deal with this situation for even a moment longer, or the dull punch of pressure jolting through his forearm when that dagger sinks through his wrist.
Whatever hot blade of pain races through his nerves seems to be coming from very far away, drowned out by the adrenaline rush of fury coursing through his veins. (Anger over pain. Always. Drown out anything that hurts. Destroy it. Burn it out with rage.) And so even when the dagger yanks out, reeling back before cutting a wide arc through the air, he doesn't hesitate to intercept the swing with a backhand swat of his other arm. If the knife fucks up his hand from the move, so be it. Who cares.
It doesn't matter so long as he can use this opportunity to punch Dokja in the face.
The mace clatters heavily to the floor, completely forgotten as Gen instead drives forth, aiming to bear his weight down and pin Dokja to the ground. And regardless of how much blood lingers sticky and warm against his knuckles -- his own, or Dokja's, he can't even tell any more, it doesn't matter -- he aims to punch the man again. Again. Again.
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So when that ends up not being the case, he's not sure what pisses him off more -- the fact that he has to deal with this situation for even a moment longer, or the dull punch of pressure jolting through his forearm when that dagger sinks through his wrist.
Whatever hot blade of pain races through his nerves seems to be coming from very far away, drowned out by the adrenaline rush of fury coursing through his veins. (Anger over pain. Always. Drown out anything that hurts. Destroy it. Burn it out with rage.) And so even when the dagger yanks out, reeling back before cutting a wide arc through the air, he doesn't hesitate to intercept the swing with a backhand swat of his other arm. If the knife fucks up his hand from the move, so be it. Who cares.
It doesn't matter so long as he can use this opportunity to punch Dokja in the face.
The mace clatters heavily to the floor, completely forgotten as Gen instead drives forth, aiming to bear his weight down and pin Dokja to the ground. And regardless of how much blood lingers sticky and warm against his knuckles -- his own, or Dokja's, he can't even tell any more, it doesn't matter -- he aims to punch the man again. Again. Again.
However many times it takes. ]