The fight began well enough. Mike struck down about half of them before anyone landed a hit on him.
The hit that landed, though . . . . If he hadn't hardened his body, he would be paste. It wasn't the unstoppable strength of Nallit, but it was undeniably more than Mike could bring to bear himself. He had never been able to tell a difference between himself and Cassandane. There had been a vague sense that he was stronger than Marius. But this was the first time he encountered a full paragon who had a definitive strength advantage. It shouldn't change the outcome, given his training.
Back in the MMA gym, he had enjoyed humbling the body builders who would come in to try a grappling class with the assumption that their muscle mass would let them out-wrestle everyone else. They would never return after a single visit, horrified at the hit to their ego. Size and strength mattered in combat. Quite a lot, actually. But it wasn't the only thing that mattered. Technical skill, aggression, misdirection, and energy conservation were just as important to determining the outcome. Mike had loved in high school wrestling every time someone smaller owned his ass when he was getting started. He had all but drooled at the thought of acquiring those skills for himself. The same thing had happened again when he began grappling in the gym and smaller opponents were able to utilize a sophisticated submission game to counter his wrestling. And yet again, it had happened recently when he learned of corona wrestling.
Of course, there was always the notion of a puncher's chance in strictly physical fights. You could be the best wrestler in the world, but if your opponent got in a good strike before you took them down, you were out of the fight. Statistically, wrestling beat striking in professional contests. More UFC champs had a background in wrestling than anything else. Still: puncher's chance.
As Mike felt attacks launch towards him from every direction, his reflections on the parallels between combat sports and battle flashed through his mind in an instant. He had been grounded by a lucky shot. He needed to defend, make an opening, and get back to an offensive stance. Defend: full hardening using the brain hardening tricks he had spent the past two days learning. Make an opening: a massive meme blast that would have half the city spacing out, probably causing traffic accidents galore as an unfortunate side-effect. Get back to an offensive stance: corona spiralling clockwise and upwise to crash back down, finding and squeezing brain stems with practiced ease; then repeat.
He aborted his third attack when cars began hurtling through the air towards him. Mike wrestled the coronas enough to slip to the side, avoiding the initial impacts. Scrap metal and shards of glass bounced off him as he stumbled forward, every step contested by enemy coronas he had to counter with his own.
Mental exhaustion threatened to overwhelm him. Keeping up his enhanced hardening while corona wrestling was like trying to say the alphabet backwards while juggling. He managed, mostly, but there were a lot of mistakes and the drain grew every moment. He needed to thin the ranks of his enemies if he wanted a chance to walk out of this alive.
Rather than an undifferentiated meme blast, this time Mike summoned up the sensation of absolute terror and infused it into the nous he carried. When he broadcast that mind-numbing terror, the church army flinched as one. In that moment with his movement unrestricted, Mike launched himself into the sky. No longer surrounded, Mike began to smack individual targets towards the ground. Those who were strong enough to resist his offensive, he ignored. Those who were susceptible, on the other hand, he mangled. Twisted forms with femur, rib, and humerus shards poking out hit the ground screaming, adding to the terror around him. He might be outmatched in terms of strength, and they might be capable of overwhelming his defenses, but he had taken down over half their number already. They had to be frightened even without the meme blast of terror. Hearing the wails of their grievously wounded comrades would weigh on them, hopefully enough to distract them or cause them to hesitate.
Enemy after enemy fell until there were only seven opponents remaining.
Those seven flew into the air to face him in a rough line. Two of their number appeared frightened, but the remainder didn't seem affected by the violence Mike had unleashed so far. One of them, the one Mike could feel surpassed him in strength, took the opportunity to speak. "We were told you would be crafty, Demon Choker."
Annoyance burst free within Mike. "Do you actually believe that bullshit? You really think Nallit is a literal angel?"
The man affected a superior manner. "Don't try using your devil's tongue to confuse our purpose. We have a mission from God and we will not back down."
"I'm just trying to find out if you lot are dumb or corrupt. Do you actually believe that my powers are from the devil and yours are from God, even though they are the same powers? Or are you just saying that's what you believe because it makes you seem special and good?"
"We're true believers, Demon Choker."
"I think we should take a minute to appreciate the fact that you call me a demon choker instead of an angel choker."
After a moment of silence, Nallit's voice reached them. "Boring! Show me some blood!"
The leader of the other side opened his mouth to say something. Mike didn't wait for what would undoubtedly be some pointlessly smug holier-than-thou pronouncement. He shot towards the closest opponent, driving his fist into the man's temple as he passed by and imparting a teleotic pattern of shattered bone. The man's skull exploded, raining blood and brain upon the wasteland their pretend cage had become.
From the sidelines, Nallit shouted again. "Woohooo!"
