Marcus looked directly into Victor's eyes. The young fighter’s smile faltered for a fraction of a second when he saw nothing but cold, absolute void staring back at him.

"Just ring the bell," Marcus said, his voice barely above a whisper.

The timekeeper, looking highly apologetic and wincing in advance, reached over and hit the metal bell.

Ding. Ding.

Chapter 6: The Single Strike

Victor lunged forward the very millisecond the sound of the bell filled the air. He wanted to end this instantly, to embarrass the old man in front of his court. He threw a flashy, spinning backfist, intending to slap Marcus across the face and knock him down with sheer momentum.

But when the heavy leather glove arrived at its destination, Marcus simply wasn't there.

It wasn't a panicked scramble. The janitor had taken a microscopic half-step to the right, dipping his shoulder with a fluid, effortless grace that defied his age. The movement was so precise, so incredibly economical, that Victor’s spinning fist brushed lightly against the fabric of Marcus's shirt. Victor stumbled past him, carried away by his own wild momentum, hitting nothing but empty air.

The crowd went completely silent. The laughter died in their throats. It was a lucky dodge, they reasoned to themselves. The old man just tripped out of the way. It had to be.

Victor spun around, his face flushing crimson with profound embarrassment and sudden, explosive fury. His fragile ego couldn't handle looking foolish, even for a single second, especially in front of the cameras. The playful, mocking bullying vanished from his eyes, replaced immediately by a dark, homicidal rage. He planted his feet. He decided he was going to take the old man’s head entirely off his shoulders.

He charged forward again, closing the distance rapidly. This time, he didn't use flashy tricks. He threw his bread-and-butter combination, the sequence that had knocked out a dozen younger, faster, stronger professional men: a stiff, blinding left jab to the eyes, followed immediately by that devastating, over-committed overhand right.

To Victor, the sequence was a blur of violence. To Marcus, watching from a place of absolute inner stillness, it was unfolding in slow motion.