Elias didn't throw a punch. He didn't need to. He simply shifted his hips, dropping his center of gravity while simultaneously pulling Jaxson’s trapped arm forward and twisting it outward. He applied an ancient, brutal joint lock, a technique designed on battlefields not to score points, but to shatter bones and end lives.

Jaxson let out a high-pitched scream of agony as his shoulder was hyper-extended to the absolute brink of snapping. His feet left the ground as the old man’s precise application of leverage completely destroyed his balance.

With a flick of his wrists and a subtle twist of his torso, Elias redirected Jaxson’s momentum entirely. He didn't exert force; he merely guided the young champion's own violent kinetic energy against him.

Jaxson flew through the air, spun upside down, and crashed onto the unforgiving asphalt with a catastrophic THUD.

A cloud of dust rose around him. Jaxson lay flat on his back, staring up at the blinding summer sun, the breath completely driven from his lungs. His shoulder throbbed with blinding pain, and the world spun violently around him.

Above him loomed Elias Thorne. The old man stood perfectly straight, an imposing, towering silhouette of absolute dominance. The air around him felt heavy, charged with a terrifying, lethal aura. Elias looked down at the broken champion, his face entirely devoid of malice, anger, or pride. It was just a cold, hard fact.

"The three minutes are up, son," Elias said softly, his voice rumbling like distant thunder.

Absolute silence reigned over the town square. Not a single person moved. The camera crew had frozen, their lenses capturing the impossible image of the undisputed MMA champion lying helpless at the feet of a dusty, unnamed farmer. Marcus stood with his mouth agape, his phone slipping from his sweaty fingers and shattering on the ground.

Elias slowly released the tension in his body. The lethal aura dissipated as quickly as it had appeared. His shoulders slumped forward once more. His spine curved back into its familiar, comfortable hunch. The terrifying martial god vanished, replaced once again by the tired old man who just needed to fix his irrigation system.

Elias walked slowly toward the trembling manager. Marcus instinctively took a step back, holding his hands up defensively.

"The money," Elias said quietly, extending a dirty, calloused hand.

Marcus scrambled, his hands shaking violently as he peeled five crisp hundred-dollar bills from the stack. He shoved them into Elias’s hand, unable to make eye contact.