The last few shots rang as the man stopped running. The cultists were not used to being shot at and were now nothing more than a dazed, confused and panic-stricken lot. Some went mad and half-danced, half-fought with their swords, clubs and knives, only to be subdued by security troopers who simply shouldered their guns and took them down with their bare hands. Some tried to blow themselves up with what remaining molotov cocktails and IEDs they had left; a few of them succeeded and the rest were too panicky to properly detonate themselves. Others dropped to the ground, shivering in fear. Others charged forward blindly and were either shot or subdued. Still others fled; and they were the least lucky of all, for they had fallen into the clutches of the third crowd and were lynched. At the end of the day, the corpses of those who ran into the third crowd lay on the streets, beaten and broken.
The man looked around, his eyes scanning, looking for the cultist with the megaphone. It didn't take long to find him.
Maximilian had just disarmed a dark, bearded, skinhead in an orange robe and left him writhing in pain. The cutlist's tendons had been cut. When the security forces' counterattack started, the taipan's son cut a swath through the crowd of cultists. Unlike the cultists, the boy's training included practical application of the techniques. Trained in Taijiquan, Changquan, Baguazhang and Qinna as well as Daoshu, Gunshu and Qiangshu, Maximilian was both awe-inspiring and terrifying in combat.
As the bearded cultist fell, the next one in Maximilian's path was the one with the megaphone.
"Stay back!" screamed the cultist with the megaphone, raising his gun with a trembling hand. "Stay back, I'm warning you!"
"Pinkie," Maximilian murmured.
The cultist screamed an squeezed the trigger. A click was the only sound; all the bullets were spent. Several more frustrated clicks followed.
The cultist screamed again. He threw the gun at Maximilian; the boy merely leaned to the left as the gun whizzed pas his head. The cultist screamed some more and hurled the megaphone. But since this megaphone was the type that was carried under the shoulder with a sling and connected to a handheld microphone by a cord, it didn't travel far and landed only three feet from Maximilian.
"Traitor!" the cultist screamed. He pulled out a batangas knife and lunged at Maximilian, crying, "Swamiji!"
Maximilian parried the knife and thrust his blade horizontally into the cultist's head in a single circular motion. He didn't thrust it in completely, just a mere two inches of the blade.
The cultist sank to his knees and slumped forward as Maximilian walked past him. For a moment, the man thought, the blaspheming cultist was dead until a cry erupted. The cultist went up back on his knees, screaming in pain and holding his hands to his head in an attempt to stop the profuse bleeding.
"Pinkie," murmured Maximilian again without glancing back.
The man ran to the screaming cultist. He realized that somehow Maximilian had managed to avoid hitting the brain because the wound was above the eyes but below the forehead, where the nose and the forehead connected.
"Shut up!" roared the man. He lifted his right foot, put it against the right side of the cultist's head and drove it in a forward-downward motion, sending the latter to the ground.
"Stay down and shut up!"
But the cultist's screaming continued.
The man looked around, his eyes scanning, looking for the cultist with the megaphone. It didn't take long to find him.
Maximilian had just disarmed a dark, bearded, skinhead in an orange robe and left him writhing in pain. The cutlist's tendons had been cut. When the security forces' counterattack started, the taipan's son cut a swath through the crowd of cultists. Unlike the cultists, the boy's training included practical application of the techniques. Trained in Taijiquan, Changquan, Baguazhang and Qinna as well as Daoshu, Gunshu and Qiangshu, Maximilian was both awe-inspiring and terrifying in combat.
As the bearded cultist fell, the next one in Maximilian's path was the one with the megaphone.
"Stay back!" screamed the cultist with the megaphone, raising his gun with a trembling hand. "Stay back, I'm warning you!"
"Pinkie," Maximilian murmured.
The cultist screamed an squeezed the trigger. A click was the only sound; all the bullets were spent. Several more frustrated clicks followed.
The cultist screamed again. He threw the gun at Maximilian; the boy merely leaned to the left as the gun whizzed pas his head. The cultist screamed some more and hurled the megaphone. But since this megaphone was the type that was carried under the shoulder with a sling and connected to a handheld microphone by a cord, it didn't travel far and landed only three feet from Maximilian.
"Traitor!" the cultist screamed. He pulled out a batangas knife and lunged at Maximilian, crying, "Swamiji!"
Maximilian parried the knife and thrust his blade horizontally into the cultist's head in a single circular motion. He didn't thrust it in completely, just a mere two inches of the blade.
The cultist sank to his knees and slumped forward as Maximilian walked past him. For a moment, the man thought, the blaspheming cultist was dead until a cry erupted. The cultist went up back on his knees, screaming in pain and holding his hands to his head in an attempt to stop the profuse bleeding.
"Pinkie," murmured Maximilian again without glancing back.
The man ran to the screaming cultist. He realized that somehow Maximilian had managed to avoid hitting the brain because the wound was above the eyes but below the forehead, where the nose and the forehead connected.
"Shut up!" roared the man. He lifted his right foot, put it against the right side of the cultist's head and drove it in a forward-downward motion, sending the latter to the ground.
"Stay down and shut up!"
But the cultist's screaming continued.
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