After a few seconds, William took one of her hands; small in his, but surprisingly smooth, and pulled.
She stood up with an ease that surprised William; she was lighter than she seemed, despite her... generous physical build. The muscles in her legs contracted and in a fluid movement she was standing, her enormous breasts swaying with the movement, drawing attention again.
'Focus. For God's sake, stay focused.'
She stood there in front of him, still holding his hand for an extra moment, just looking. She didn't say anything. She just observed with those huge eyes that still carried remnants of curiosity, of confusion, of something that could be hope.
Then she nodded slightly. A small, almost shy movement. A silent but obvious thank you.
The moment was broken by an almost animalistic roar.
"ROAAAAAAAAA!"
The sound was pure rage, without any trace of humanity. It echoed through the clearing, making birds take flight high above.
Willian turned in time to see the hairy man getting up. A hand was massaging his chest exactly where he had been kicked; probably some ribs were cracked, at least. But he was standing. And he definitely didn't look happy about the situation.
"Oh, shit."
The guy roared again; a guttural sound of pure rage coming from deep in his chest, more beastly than human. His small, dark eyes fixed on Willian with concentrated hatred, burning like fire. Then he lunged forward, the club held high above his head in a position that promised to crush skulls.
"That's not what I wanted."
The first blow came from above, in an obvious trajectory that anyone could see coming. Willian took a step to the side without haste, almost bored. The club hit the ground where he had been a second ago, sinking into the earth and lifting dry leaves in an impact that would have shattered his bones.
Second blow, horizontal from the left. Faster than the first, but still predictable. Willian ducked, feeling the displacement of air above his head as the wood whizzed past dangerously close.
Third strike, diagonal. Willian took a simple step back, and the wood cut through the empty air in front of him.
'He's strong, but equally slow. His movements are completely predictable.'
It was strange. Willian didn't remember learning to fight. He didn't remember training, gyms, sparring. But his body knew exactly what to do. As if the muscles reacted even before the brain fully processed the movement; a reflex deeper than thought. Dodging, evading, reading body language, anticipating the next strike based on the weight shifting from one foot to the other. Everything came out automatically, as natural as breathing.
'I've probably been in situations like this before. I know how to fight.'
The hairy man attacked again, this time in a more aggressive sequence. High, low, sideways, high again; a flurry of blows that any normal person would have difficulty keeping up with. Willian's movements were so smooth he seemed to dance between attacks, his torso tilting, his feet sliding, his head spinning. No blow even came close to hitting him.
The frustration on the guy's face was becoming more and more obvious. His thick eyebrows furrowed into a heavy frown, his teeth bared in a growl that showed worn canines. He roared louder; a sound of pure exasperation, and charged with everything he had, the club coming in a horizontal swing with brutal force enough to easily break bones in three if it hit.
Willian didn't dodge this time.
He lunged into the strike, closing the distance in a snappy, swift movement.
His left hand shot out and grabbed the man's wrist, stopping the club mid-swing with a dull thud that vibrated through both their arms. His right hand caught the elbow from underneath, finding the joint with surgical precision. And then his entire body spun—hips low, leg locking the opponent's base, using his own momentum and weight against himself.
The movement came out absolutely perfect.
The hairy man flew. He literally left the ground, his massive body spinning over Willian's in a clean, controlled arc, a full 180-degree rotation. For a moment, it seemed as if time had slowed down: the brute's wide eyes, his mouth open in a scream that wouldn't come out, his arms and legs spread in the air like a disassembled rag doll. Then he hit the ground with a violent impact that made the ground tremble and raised a cloud of dry leaves.
And the club remained in William's hand, snatched away mid-movement without him even realizing how.
"This worked better than I expected," he said, unsure how the club had ended up in his hand. The object was heavy, solid, made of dark, dense wood that looked more like stone than tree. One end was thicker, with impact marks; dried blood embedded in the wood grain.
The man lay there for a second, completely stunned, his eyes unfocused, staring at the green canopy above slowly rotating. His breath came in hoarse grunts. Then his head bobbed, trying to recover, shaking off the fog of the impact. His muscles contracted, preparing to stand up; a slow, clumsy, but determined movement.
Willian didn't give him a chance.
He gripped the club with both hands, feeling the weight and balance of the object. He positioned his feet on the ground, shoulder-width apart. He rotated his hips using muscle strength, transferring all his body weight to the movement. And he swung.
Just like a baseball swing.
The club caught the A loud, definitive "CRACK" hit the side of his head, echoing through the clearing and back off the stone walls surrounding the lagoon. It was a sound that was both damp and dry at the same time, wood against skull, the two materials vying for the hardest part.
The hairy man's entire body lifted off the ground with the force of the impact. He literally took off, spinning in the air like a rag doll thrown violently by a child; arms and legs sprawled out, head turned at an angle that didn't seem right. He flew about five meters before crashing. He hit a thick root with another heavy thud, his body bending over itself at an odd angle, and stayed there. Completely motionless. His limbs scattered in various positions, one arm crooked under his torso, one leg turned the wrong way.
Willian stood still in the final position of the blow. The club still raised, his hands firm on the handle. His chest rising and falling with controlled, deep breaths. His eyes fixed on the motionless form of the brute.
'Did I kill the man? I used more force than I should have.'