The two assassins stand frozen before me, their daggers trembling against my protective qi barrier. Fear radiates from their bodies like heat from a furnace.
"What am I?" I let the question hang in the air for a moment. "I'm your death."
My hands move faster than human eyes can track. Two palm strikes, each infused with enough qi to shatter stone, connect with their chests simultaneously.
The sound is like thunder in the enclosed space.
Both men fly backward through the air. The northern guard crashes through the conference room's floor-to-ceiling window. Glass explodes outward as his body disappears into the street below. Twenty stories down.
His partner slams into the far wall with bone-crushing force. The expensive wallpaper tears. Plaster dust fills the air. He slides to the floor, leaving a crimson streak behind him.
"Impossible," Alistair stammers from his chair. "Those men were third-rank ancient martial artists. Each one could kill dozens of ordinary fighters."
