"Lucky move," Weston muttered. He rushed in again, this time changing tactics. He dropped low, shooting for a double-leg takedown—a signature Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu move designed to slam an opponent to the ground and force a grappling match.

Arthur didn't sprawl like a traditional MMA fighter. Instead, as Weston lunged for his legs, Arthur’s hands moved with terrifying precision. He caught Weston under his armpits, redirecting Weston’s forward momentum while pivoting his own hips.

Weston felt as though he had run headfirst into a concrete wall. Before he realized what was happening, his feet left the ground. Arthur executed a seamless, effortless combat throw, slamming Weston flat onto his back in the hard-packed dirt.

The impact knocked the breath out of Weston’s lungs with a loud thwack. Dust exploded into the air around him.

The cameras stopped recording. The spectators went dead silent.

Weston gasped for air, his eyes wide with shock. He scrambled to his feet, enraged and gasping, his spotless fight shorts now coated in dark Montana mud.

"You think you're smart?!" Weston roared, dropping his guard and charging with a wild, aggressive barrage of hooks and uppercuts. He was no longer fighting with technical discipline; he was swinging with pure rage.

Arthur stepped into the storm. He didn't retreat. He bypassed Weston’s punches with minimal, razor-sharp evasions—slipping right, slipping left. Each of Weston's power strikes missed by millimeter margins.

Then, Arthur struck.

He didn't use a fist. He delivered a swift, open-palm strike directly to Weston’s sternum. The blow was executed with complete kinetic transfer—not designed to break bones, but to disrupt the central nervous system.

Weston froze instantly. His arms dropped to his sides as his body short-circuited. The air left his lungs entirely, and he dropped to his knees in the dirt, clutching his chest, unable to draw a breath.