>"Time...Is no object to the one who bears the clock. I'll show you all what I can do..! Let's run the welcome wagon over these guys!"
>Mackenzie's World, followed by Silver Acute 360: Attack, directed at the snipers! The other moves will get their chances soon enough. But first the snipers gotta go!
>The first and second sentence you speak in your head, focusing your senses into a deadly point. The third you say aloud, to the rallying cries of all the other mercenaries around you.
>So let's go.
>Short bursts of Buriallusion send you flying into the midst of the branches above, and with a spin and a flip you send your phantom knives careening towards their targets. They're all a little spread out, too much to use Acute 360 normally, but if you make yourself the target then reverse the trajectory of the knives, then...!
>You land atop a branch and throw one last knife with an underhand throw. "...Mackenzie Special: Reverse Silver, Obtuse 360." >If a dome of knives focused in on one target is 'acute', then logically a dome of knives sent flying out like shrapnel from a grenade, and thus the opposite, would be 'obtuse'. That's your logic, anyways, and from the crescendo of impacts and screams, seems like no one's left to argue it.
>Your bloodlust soars and roars. Despite not being human, these are people. The desire to kill them is raging, nearly out of control, but you keep it in check. Plenty of innocents on that caravan...plenty of innocent lives to be lost if you don't do it.
>The foot troops swarm in below you, unawares that their ranged support has been butchured, at least at this location. You casually step off the branch and fall.
>Three knives fly downwards, striking and freezing just as many bandits in place. With a quick
reinforcement at the last second, you cushion the fall, grit your teeth at the shockwave that runs up your body, and slash open the throat of one with a chop, dash to the left and stab his neck with a quick lunge, then spin around, knife twirling, and slice open the last man's neck in quick succession.
>The men unfreeze two seconds later as the rest stand still in shock. As not-red blood splatters against the forest floor and the trees around you, staining the moss and wood with an irony tang, you turn back and face the rest of the entourage.
>A cursory glance reveals that you've pretty much taken on this group solo. It's a small one, probably meant to steal stuff during the chaos. Maybe a dozen or so men, not including the ones you just slaughtered. Around you, the fight rages on as dozens more swarm in from the forest.
>Your eyes narrow. There's something important on this caravan, or someone important, if there are this many people going for it.
>Whatever. People to fight right in front of you.
>Three spears. Four axes. Two halberds. Three swords. The polearm users quickly hold their arms in front of them in an attempt to keep you at bay.
>
Thump. Thump. Thump. Your lips twist into a snarl. This is ridiculous. The bloodlust is reaching absurd levels...tch.
>You palm three more knives and throw them forwards, dispersing the crowd. By some miracle they manage to dodge them all, but that's what you intended. They rush in from several angles, blades poised to kill, but you
leap and bring the past back to the present.
>Your time clones lash out, repeating the motions of your triple throat slice. It's not perfect positioning, but you catch the eye of one guy, the chest of another, and stab straight through the last's cheek. They crumple over the corpses of the first three, as though orchestrated.
>Risky as fuck, but the Time Clones paid off. That's three down.
>You flip midair and land in a crouch. Your eyes glance upwards at the now clearly shaken squad and smirk. Three piles, two bodies each, and about twelve seconds of action total. Maybe.
>Three polearms out of the way. Two left, along with the axes and swords...not to mention the other appendages you failed to notice earlier. Tch, those extra limbs are going to screw you over sooner or later...
>You toss your knife forwards, draw your machete-like one with your right, and fall into a dead sprint, catching your knife with your left hand mid stride. The chopping blade falls down like a guillotine at a stabbing spear head, splitting the wood and deflecting the blow. The follow up swing lodges your weapon in the spearman's ribs, and with a quick spin you slash at the halberd man. It's a glancing blow, but it puts you close and in perfect position to rain icepick stabs on his exposed chest.
>Both of them crumple to the floor while you flip your knife back into your right hand. The bandits left look at you, then look at themseles...then run for it. Without the extended reach and thus safety of the polearms, clearly they felt it prudent to split.
>Your fingers uncurl and curl around the knife grip. To pursue or not to pursue.
