Mao was not having a good day: He'd been shoehorned into a mass fight to the death, he'd spilled some of his wine, and someone had hit him from behind when he wasn't looking. His back still burned in the spot where the orb had struck him, though it was much less concerning that the needle bearing woman that had nearly taken his eye out when he was staggered. Blood ran hot down his cheek from the gash that the weapon's tip created. The woman pulled her weapon back with a soft sucking sound as it was tugged from Mao's flesh, bringing with it a wave of anger that Mao hadn't felt in years. The monk snarled and swung his weapon in a horizontal arc with both hands, catching his would be killer in her hip before she had the chance to move. There was a crunch, followed by a sharp cry as the woman's hip bone was shattered from the blow. Mao rose to his feet and held his weapon overhead as he prepared to finish his aggressor off, though he managed to catch his senses mere seconds before he could crush the woman's skull with the heavy ball end of his glaive.

Rage was immediately replaced by shame as Mao realized just what he'd done. Still, now was neither the time nor the place to lament what he'd  done. The monk muttered an apology to his opponent before leaving her to whatever fate awaited her, likely death at the hands of another fighter.