From atop his highest mountain, King Yat attacked. His wings bore him with an easy power which he flung as great sharks whip their tails. Thus he swam into a steep plunge, plowing downward; a driven nail. All his armies looked up in fear and amazement and they cheered, for the laziest soldier was about to die.
In the valley below, that soldier knew it at once as his comrades pushed away from him, fleeing in all directions. So he stood alone, encircled, and gawked about in terror at the sky. Down came Yat in a swoop, in a blink of flashing sword and was gone into the clouds. All that remained was an arm and a boot. The rest rocketed up, only to be caught by the hair at the apex of ascent and beheaded for all to see; the body dropping away into the distance.
The roar of applause was immense. It shook the valley. Yat felt this upon his wings and he raised the soldier’s head high with a sneer and then flung it, still living, into space. Then casually he flicked away low over the troops, just out of bow range. Arrows rose like prayers and followed him as he laughed, darting to and sweeping fro. His minions loved him and at dawn he would hurl them at his enemy, conquer and feast in the evening.
King Yat! They hailed him, and he knew, already, which was the next one to die. Fetch my spear, he mused.