heavy, frustrated grunts of Marcus Vance and the

squeak of shoes on the canvas.

Marcus was furious. His lungs were burning,

his arms feeling heavy. He was used to opponents

cowering, covering up, or crumbling under his

aggressive onslaught. He wasn't used to punching

thin air. This single dad, this nobody with a

plastic bracelet, was making him look like a fool

in front of his home crowd.

"Stand still and fight!" Marcus bellowed, his

discipline completely evaporating. He rushed

forward, throwing a wild, desperate head kick. It

was a risky move, leaving him entirely exposed.

Arthur saw the technique unfolding in slow

motion. The shift in the hips, the plant of the

pivot foot, the torque of the waist. It was

powerful, but reckless.

Arthur didn't dodge this time. As the shin

came swinging towards his head like a baseball

bat, Arthur stepped *into* the attack. He raised

his left forearm, perfectly angled to absorb and

deflect the brunt of the impact while

simultaneously crashing his shoulder into

Marcus's chest.

The impact sounded like a car crash. Marcus

gasped as the wind was violently knocked out of

him. The force of his own kick, combined with

Arthur's forward momentum, sent the black belt

crashing onto his back.

The arena erupted into absolute chaos. People

were screaming, jumping out of their seats. The

invincible Marcus "The Mauler" Vance was on his

back, gasping for air, looking up at the ceiling

lights in sheer bewilderment.

The referee stood frozen for a second before

jumping in. "One! Two!" he started the count.

Arthur took two steps back, returning to a

neutral corner. He didn't celebrate. He didn't

taunt. He just watched calmly as Marcus

scrambled to his feet at the count of four, his face

contorted in a mask of pure rage and

humiliation.

"You got lucky!" Marcus screamed, spitting

out his mouthpiece. The rules stated a

knockdown won the match, but Marcus wasn't

having it. "Fight's not over! He tripped me!"

The promoter, standing ringside and seeing

the potential for an explosive finale, waved the

referee away. "Let them fight! The crowd wants

blood!"

The referee hesitated, then stepped back,

signaling the fight to continue. Arthur narrowed

his eyes. The rules were being bent, but he didn't

care. He had three minutes, and only one minute

and a half had passed. He would survive. He

would win.

Marcus, now fully enraged and unhinged,

attacked with murderous intent. He abandoned