coloring his vision red. His right arm was tingling, practically dead
weight.
"Lucky move, old man!" Jake roared.
He charged again, this time abandoning striking for grappling.
He dove low, aiming for a double-leg takedown. If he could get the
farmer on the ground, his Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu training would take
over.
As Jake shot in, Arthur stepped backward, just slightly, letting
Jake's momentum commit him to the dive. Instead of sprawling to
defend, Arthur sidestepped like a matador. As Jake flew past him,
Arthur’s hands clamped down—one on the back of Jake's neck, the
other gripping the waistband of Jake's shorts.
Using Jake's own forward momentum and massive weight
against him, Arthur guided the young fighter straight down.
Jake hit the dirt face-first with a sickening thud. A cloud of dust
exploded around him. The crowd erupted into a collective shout of
sheer disbelief. The unbeatable MMA fighter was eating dirt, put
there by a sixty-year-old farmer in wool socks.
Jake scrambled to his knees, spitting dust and blood. His nose
was busted, and his pride was shattered. The mockery of the crowd
burned in his ears. He let out a feral roar and lunged blindly at
Arthur, swinging wild, desperate punches with his good left arm.
Arthur parried the blows with economical, effortless
movements. He wasn't fighting; he was redirecting force. He caught
Jake's left wrist, twisted his body, and slid his own arm under Jake’s
elbow. With a sharp, practiced twist of his hips and a slight