Blitzes mercenaries

There was no better way to describe it. Siegfried had been fast, like a comet, as inexorable as a mountain and racing along at a constant speed. He was a hurricane, all harsh wind and unstoppable strength, pounding down before you realized he was upon you. Galahad, it seemed to me, was faster. He was like lightning, an incredible flow of motion and power from one point to another, a raging river fed by torrential rain. He didn’t dash, he didn’t sprint, he simply moved.

In an instant, I crossed the walkway, soared down the hallway, and was among the crowd of mercenaries, bullets pinging uselessly against the shield of Galahad’s power that I’d gathered around me like a second skin. My fist was already in motion by the time I’d come to a stop — CRACK — and with a thunderous sound audible even over the staccato roar of gunfire, I snapped one man’s rifle in half with a single well-placed strike of my fist.