Marcus burst into a booming, theatrical

laugh, pointing at Arthur's right wrist. The

colorful, chunky plastic beads looked absurdly

out of place.

"Oh, this is rich!" Marcus roared into the

microphone, making sure the entire room could

hear. "Look at this guy! He's wearing a little girl's

jewelry! What's the matter, man? Couldn't afford

hand wraps? Did you steal that from a

kindergartner?"

The crowd howled with laughter. Insults and

jeers rained down from the bleachers. "Go home,

dad!" someone yelled. "Don't get killed, old man!"

Arthur didn't flinch. He slowly raised his right

hand, looking at the bracelet. The bright pink,

yellow, and blue beads caught the glare of the

overhead lights. "My daughter made it for me,"

Arthur said, his voice low, but carrying enough

menace to make the referee take a half-step back.

"She said it's magic. It makes me brave."

*Ding. Ding. Ding.*

The bell echoed through the hall. Instantly,

Marcus launched forward, abandoning any

pretense of feeling out his opponent. He threw a

massive, looping right hook aimed straight at

Arthur's jaw. It was a knockout punch, designed

to end the fight in the first five seconds and give

the crowd the violent spectacle they craved.

The crowd gasped, anticipating the

devastating impact.

But Arthur wasn't there.

With a movement so fluid and fast it seemed

almost supernatural, Arthur simply slipped to the

outside of the punch. He didn't block it; he

merely let the violent momentum carry Marcus

past him. The sudden miss threw Marcus off

balance, causing him to stumble slightly towards

the ropes.

A murmur rippled through the crowd. That

wasn't supposed to happen.

Marcus spun around, his face flushing with

immediate embarrassment and rising anger.

"Lucky slip, old man," he spat. He charged again,

this time unleashing a flurry of combinations—

jabs, crosses, hooks—a barrage of leather meant

to overwhelm.

Arthur moved like water. He bobbed, he

weaved, he pivoted. He didn't throw a single

strike in return. He remained entirely defensive,

his footwork impeccable, managing the distance

with mathematical precision. Every punch

Marcus threw missed by mere millimeters. It was

as if Arthur knew exactly where the strikes were

going before Marcus even threw them.

Chapter 4: The Bell Rings

One minute down. The crowd, initially

mocking, had fallen into a stunned, captivated

silence. The only sounds in the arena were the