Page 54 of Retaliation

Each blow landed with deadly accuracy, the force of his strikes driving the nomad back with each hit. With each punch and kick, he chipped away at his opponent’s defenses, wearing him down bit by bit.

And then, with a final, crushing blow, Phillip delivered the knockout strike, his fist connecting with the nomad’s jaw with bone-shattering force. The sound of impact reverberated through the arena, a symphony of triumph and victory.

But Phillip didn’t stop. He unleashed his fury upon the fallen nomad, his fists raining down upon his defenseless opponent with relentless ferocity. Landing blow after blow.

As he pummeled the nomad into submission, bloodlust coursed through his veins, his vision clouded with a red haze of rage. He was consumed by the need to inflict pain, to unleash his pent-up frustration upon his victim.

The nomad curled into the fetal position, his arms

raised in a feeble attempt to shield himself from Phillip’s onslaught. But Phillip did not heed his cries for mercy, his relentless assault fueled by an insatiable.

Even after the nomad had lost consciousness, he continued to rain down blows upon his motionless form, his fists moving like pistons as he unleashed his fury.

The arena fell silent, the air thick with tension as Kitiara watched from her box, her expression unreadable. She knew that Phillip had crossed a dangerous line, that his actions threatened to spiral out of control.

Sending her guards to intervene, she watched as they rushed into the ring, their faces set in grim determination. They struggled to restrain Phillip, their efforts hampered by his sheer strength and determination.

It took six men to finally pin Phillip to the ground, their bodies straining against his as they fought to subdue him. Even then, he continued to struggle, his defiance unyielding in the face of overwhelming odds.

As Kitiara stepped into the ring, the tension in the air could be cut with a knife. The guards bowed their heads in deference to her authority as she approached.

But Phillip remained defiant, his gaze locked with Kitiara’s as he didn’t surrender amidst the chaos he had wrought. He may have crossed a line, but he refused to back down, his pride and stubbornness refusing to yield to her authority.

“When I said ‘blow off some steam’, I didn’t mean you should kill one of my fighters,” Kitiara said.

“He’s still breathing,” he scoffed, his tone insolent as he brushed off her reprimand.

Kitiara’s expression hardened, her gaze piercing as she met his stare. “You showed plain disregard for our rules, Scorpion. Leave now, and once you are calm, I’ll consider allowing you back in.”

His jaw clenched as he glared at her, his chest heaving with exertion. “I won’t stop until she pays for what she’s done,” he growled.

Kitiara’s expression softened slightly, but her tone remained firm. “She will pay, but not like this. You’re jeopardizing everything you’ve worked for.”

With a final glare, Kitiara ordered Phillip to leave, her tone leaving no room for argument. The guards let go of him, and he jumped to his feet.

“Walk it off, Scor,” Damian said to his left. Phillip hadn’t even notice that he was part of the guards pinning him down. With a violent shove, he pushed Damian’s hand away that was reaching for his elbow.

“Fuck off, Damian. You’re not the ring leader anymore.”

“That’s right,” Kitiara interjected. “I am, and I am telling you to get the fuck out of my ring.”

Phillip’s muscles tensed as Kitiara’s words reverberated in his mind. He knew that Kitiara held the power to end him with a mere gesture, and yet, he couldn’t shake the burning desire for revenge that consumed his every thought.

As he strode out of the arena, he could feel the weight of Kitiara’s gaze boring into his back, her silent warning echoing in his ears. He resisted the urge to lash out, to defy her orders, and continue his relentless pursuit of justice. But he knew that such defiance would only lead to his downfall.

With a heavy heart, he made his way to his bike, the frustration of his failure simmering beneath the surface. He cursed himself for losing control, for allowing his emotions to dictate his actions. Revenge, he reminded himself, was best served with calculation, and he was far too hot-headed to exact it in the heat of the moment.

His fingers trembled slightly as he pulled out his phone, the screen illuminating the. With a few swift taps, he dialed Gunnar’s number, lighting a smoke as he waited for his friend to pick up.

It didn’t take long for Gunnar to answer.

“Scor, what’s up?” Gunnar’s words were a lifeline in Phillip’s emotional storm.

“Are you busy?” Desperation seeped through the cracks in his voice.

“Not at the moment. What do you need me to do?” Gunnar’s response was immediate, his unwavering loyalty comforting.

“Get Dennis and meet me at the factory,” he instructed. “And bring beer.”

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