Overwhelming Enemy #11

The night air was thick with tension, the kind that settled in the gut like a lead weight. The town, bathed in an eerie half-light from scattered streetlamps, seemed unnaturally quiet. It was a calm that promised violence.

From the shadows of the encroaching treeline, the Foreigner's voice boomed through a megaphone, cutting through the silence like a knife. "Silvy! I know you're in there, and I know you're harboring him. Hand over Logan, or everyone in that quaint little town of yours dies. You have five minutes."

Silvija Sablinova stood atop the barricade her Wild Pack had hastily erected, her silver hair catching the dim light. She raised her own megaphone, her voice calm but laced with steel. "Foreigner, it's been a while. Still holding a grudge, I see."

The Foreigner's voice crackled back, his tone smug. "Grudge? Let's not make this personal. Though, I must admit, seeing my ex-wife playing soldier in this backwater does make it a bit nostalgic."

Silvija's eyes narrowed. "I'm almost impressed. For someone whose only claim to fame's being my ex-husband, you sure put together quite the mob... what's the plan then? Bore us all to death with your monologues?"

The Foreigner chuckled darkly. "I'll admit, I miss our little spats. But no, Silvy, this time, I'm here for results. Last chance."

"Go on then, send your men to deaths!" Silvija lowered the megaphone, her gaze sweeping over her mercenaries. She exchanged a glance with Nathan, who was already positioning himself near the edge of the barricade, his eyes scanning for any sign of movement.

The Foreigner's forces began to advance, emerging from the shadows in waves. His assassins, clad in dark tactical gear, moved with predatory precision, while his mercenaries, less disciplined but no less deadly, followed close behind.

"Here they come!" Silvija shouted, raising her hand in a signal. The Wild Pack sprang into action, weapons ready. Despite being outnumbered, they were highly trained and better equipped. But the odds were still grim.

Nathan, stationed behind a cover of debris, steadied his rifle and picked off targets with calculated precision. He didn't put himself on the frontline like Silvija and Logan, but his support was invaluable nonetheless, thinning the ranks of the enemy and providing cover fire. His eyes, however, never strayed far from the Foreigner.

The Wild Pack fought valiantly. One mercenary, a towering figure named Vasquez, found himself surrounded by three assassins. His blade flashed in the dim light as he dispatched two with swift, brutal efficiency. But before he could react, a fourth assassin plunged a dagger into his side. Vasquez crumpled, taking one more foe down with him as he fell.

Meanwhile, Wolverine had already plunged into the chaos, his claws gleaming under the dim light like predatory fangs. His objective was simple: cut through the throng and get to the Foreigner. But the Foreigner wasn't a fool. Dressed in sleek, dark armor and wielding the Muramasa Blade, he faced Logan's raw aggression with icy precision.

Logan lunged, his claws slicing through the air with a savage grace, but the Foreigner was ready. With a deft, almost effortless motion, he parried the assault, the Muramasa Blade glinting ominously. Logan's eyes narrowed; he knew the blade's deadly reputation. One wrong move, and it would slice through him like a hot knife through butter.

Worse yet, the blade's curse nullified his healing factor.

The Foreigner's blade bit into Logan's arm, drawing a deep, red line. Blood dripped onto the ground, and for the first time in a long while, the wound didn't seal. Logan clenched his jaw, the familiar rush of pain sharp and unyielding. He danced back, dodging a follow-up slash aimed at his gut.

"You know what this blade can do," the Foreigner taunted, his voice as smooth and cold as steel. "You're stronger, faster—but you fight like a beast. How long can you last when your wounds don't close?"

Logan snarled, adjusting his stance. His attacks became more measured, still ferocious but tinged with caution. His usual strategy—charging headlong and healing from whatever damage he took—was a liability now.

The Muramasa Blade's edge tore a gash across his chest, forcing him to stagger, his breath coming in short, ragged bursts.

Before the Foreigner could press his advantage, Silvija Sable darted into the fray. Her electrified batons crackled to life, striking the Foreigner with precision. "Enough," she commanded, her voice firm. "You're no good to those kids dead."

Logan hesitated, his instincts screaming at him to keep fighting. But he relented, retreating a few paces to regroup. He wasn't here for a personal vendetta; his mission was to save a group of mutant children trapped in the island. He couldn't afford to waste time here.

As he watched the Foreigner's fluid movements and the calculated strength behind his strikes, a troubling realization crept in. This wasn't just some highly trained human. There was something... more. The Foreigner moved with a confidence that suggested he was accustomed to battling foes stronger than him, and the Muramasa Blade only tipped the scales further in his favor.

Logan knew this wouldn't be a fight he could win easily, and even if he did, he'd have to pay a great price.

Silvija turned her full attention to her former husband, her movements swift and calculated. She was a master combatant, but the Muramasa Blade was a force to be reckoned with.

Their fight was a dance of deadly precision. Silvija landed a solid strike on the Foreigner's arm, her baton sending a jolt of electricity through his system. He staggered but recovered quickly, slashing out with the blade. Silvija barely dodged, the edge grazing her side and cutting through her armor like paper.

The two circled each other, Silvija's breath coming in controlled bursts. The Foreigner lunged, and this time, Silvija wasn't fast enough. He cut through her baton and the tip of his blade was buried into her shoulder. He raised its sharp end, bringing it to her neck.

"Checkmate," the Foreigner said softly, his voice devoid of emotion. "Any last words, darling?"

Before he could deliver the final blow, a gunshot rang out. The Foreigner's hand jerked, and the blade veered off course. He stumbled back, a bullet bouncing off the armor on his shoulder. Nathan stood a few feet away, his pistol aimed steadily.

The Foreigner's eyes narrowed as he fixed his gaze on Nathan. If he hadn't sensed the bullet's trajectory and twisted his body just in time, the shot would have found its mark in his skull. Instead, it merely grazed past his shoulder, tearing through the fabric of his suit. "And who might you be?" he asked, his tone a mix of curiosity and irritation.

Nathan didn't waste words. His response came in the form of another gunshot, the muzzle of his pistol flaring as he fired again. The Foreigner reacted swiftly, raising the Muramasa Blade with a fluid motion, deflecting the bullet in a blink. The metallic clang echoed in the tense air, sending the projectile harmlessly to the side.

Silvija, watching from a few paces away, blinked in shock. "What the hell? Something's wrong, Nathan. He's not supposed to be that fast," she exclaimed, her voice edged with disbelief.

Nathan, his face set in a grim line, didn't spare her a glance. "I figured as much," he replied, his tone steady, devoid of surprise. As his pistol clicked empty, he tossed it aside without hesitation. His hands dipped into his coat, retrieving two combat knives, their blades glinting under the sparse light.

"Relax," he said, a blank expression on his face. "I'll handle it."

Without waiting for a reply, Nathan lunged, his movements precise and calculated. The Foreigner's grin widened, his grip tightening around the Muramasa Blade. "I like your confidence," he remarked, his voice calm as he brought the blade down in a swift arc.

Nathan had anticipated the move. His feet shifted, carrying him just out of the sword's lethal path. Twirling the knife in his left hand into a reverse grip, he launched it toward the Foreigner's neck, the blade spinning through the air with deadly intent.

The Foreigner remained composed, swinging the Muramasa Blade upward. The cursed sword met the flying knife with a sharp clang, cleaving it cleanly in half. Nathan's eyes narrowed, his frown deepening. He quickly retreated a step, knowing all too well the blade's unparalleled sharpness would effortlessly slice through his weapon if he tried attacking again.

Silvija gritted her teeth, her frustration mounting as she watched Nathan square off against the Foreigner. She wanted to charge in and help, to turn the tide in their favor, but the sharp crack of gunfire and the agonized screams behind her tore her attention away.

Turning, she saw the Wildpack mercenaries locked in brutal combat with the Foreigner's forces. Without Wolverine carving through the assassins due to his injuries and Nathan no longer providing covering fire, the casualties were mounting rapidly. Blood stained the ground, and the Wildpack's line was beginning to falter.

"I'll leave this to you!" Silvija shouted over her shoulder to Nathan, her voice cutting through the chaos. Without waiting for a response, she sprinted toward her embattled comrades, already barking orders to regroup and hold their ground. Her presence alone rallied the mercenaries, and they began to push back, their movements more coordinated under her command.

Meanwhile, the Foreigner's grin widened as his gaze returned to Nathan. "I guess it's just us now," he drawled, his voice laced with amusement and menace.

Nathan didn't bother to respond. His hand moved swiftly, launching a knife toward the Foreigner with deadly precision. The Foreigner deflected it effortlessly, his Muramasa Blade a blur as it sent the knife clattering to the ground. But Nathan was already moving, his backup pistol in hand, firing a rapid succession of shots.

Each bullet was expertly batted away, the clang of metal on metal ringing out as the Foreigner deflected the rounds with an almost lazy grace.

By the time the last bullet left the chamber, Nathan had closed the distance. His hand darted out, bypassing the deadly arc of the Muramasa Blade, and clamped down on the Foreigner's shoulder. With a fluid motion, Nathan positioned his shoulder beneath the Foreigner's elbow and yanked down, attempting to dislocate it.

He poured every ounce of his strength into the move, expecting to hear the satisfying pop of bone giving way.

Instead, nothing happened. The Foreigner didn't even flinch. His smirk remained intact as though he were merely toying with Nathan.

Nathan's eyes widened in shock, but he didn't let up. The Foreigner's free hand reached for him, but Nathan was relentless. Determined to make him drop the blade, Nathan drove his knife toward the Foreigner's sword hand. The blade struck true—only to produce a metallic clang as it connected, the force of the impact sending vibrations up Nathan's arm.

The knife didn't pierce flesh; instead, it rebounded as though striking solid steel. The recoil nearly wrenched the weapon from Nathan's grip.

Nathan had only a split second to act as the Foreigner's hand lunged for him. He swung his knife with every ounce of strength he could muster, aiming for the Foreigner's neck in a desperate bid to turn the tide. But the Foreigner was faster. He twisted his body just enough to evade the blade, his hand closing around Nathan's throat with vice-like force.

The grip was suffocating, a paralyzing hold that left Nathan unable to breathe or fight back effectively. His vision blurred as he struggled, his muscles straining against the crushing pressure. All he could do was clutch his knives tightly, refusing to let them go as he glared at the Foreigner with defiant eyes.

"Good effort," the Foreigner mocked, his voice dripping with condescension. Without warning, he drove his forehead into Nathan's face, the impact shattering his nose with a sickening crunch.

Blood splattered across both of them as Nathan's head snapped back, a wave of pain washing over him. Still, he kept his calm, even as he watched the Foreigner raise his blade.

"You hit like a bitch," Nathan said through gritted teeth, purposely trying to provoke the Foreigner into anger.

The Foreigner's expression twisted as he delivered another brutal headbutt, eliciting a guttural growl of pain from Nathan. Dazed and disoriented, Nathan barely registered the swift kick that followed, slamming into his stomach and sending him sprawling backward.

He hit the ground hard, the impact jarring his body as he clutched his midsection, gasping for air.

The pain was excruciating.

He could feel several ribs crack under the force of the blow, and a sharp, stabbing sensation in his abdomen suggested that some of his internal organs had taken significant damage. Each breath he took felt like fire, and his vision swam as he tried to steady himself.

The Foreigner loomed over him, a predator savoring its victory. "You want to buy time, don't you? Get me to smack you around instead of killing you right away? Fine!" he continued, his tone cold as he slowly closed the distance between them. "You should seriously be careful what you wish for..."

He raised his foot, driving it down into Nathan's side with merciless precision. The force of the kick drove the breath from Nathan's lungs, leaving him gasping and writhing in pain. The Foreigner wasn't done. He delivered another kick, then another, each one more brutal than the last, aiming to break him piece by piece.

Nathan clenched his teeth, the world around him fading into a haze of agony. He knew he had to find a way to fight back, to survive. But as the Foreigner's relentless assault continued, the odds of doing so seemed to dwindle with each passing second.

...

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