Han Yu ducked low, sweeping his broom in a wide arc.
The nearest attacker, too confident, too aggressive, tripped and slammed face-first into the ground.
Han Yu followed up with a sharp jab of the broom handle into the man's gut, knocking the air out of him with a pitiful wheeze.
One down.
The other two came at him from either side.
Han Yu gritted his teeth.
This would hurt.
He let the one on his left grab his arm—and then twisted, using the man's own momentum to throw him straight into his companion.
The two collided with a loud THUD, staggering.
Before they could recover, Han Yu slammed the bristled end of the broom into their faces, sending one sprawling and the other stumbling back, blood spurting from a broken nose.
His muscles ached.
His breathing was ragged.
The suppression array was taking its toll.
But Han Yu stood tall.
"I don't know who you think I am," he panted, "but I'm not the same Han Yu you used to push around."
