The thick-necked disciple's strides were rigid, his hands forged into fists; he harbored zero jests. As he marched upon Sam, his absolute objective was to inflict malice, yet he was not the solitary soul in the environs harboring this intent. When twin fists enshrouded in yellow Earth Element crashed into his vessel simultaneously, he possessed not the fortune to even perceive the origin of the assault.
He was hurled akin to a kite severed from its tether, his ponderous vessel defying gravity until he crashed into the table allocated for the Twentieth Ward. Beholding the approaching mass, Mel elevated his head, merely to resume his slumber the ensuing instant. He bore the semblance of a lion whose belly was satiated, paying zero heed to the herd of gazelles traversing his domain.
"Insolent bastard! Who do you presume you are to utter such words following a measurement I executed?"
