"I'm broke, Rusty," Clayton interrupted gently. "And the wheat is dying."
Trent tossed the money to Rusty, who caught it reluctantly. "Hold the cash, Rusty. Three minutes on the clock. Bare knuckle or taped, I don't care. I'll even let the old man wear his boots."
Clayton slowly bent down and unlaced his heavy work boots, placing them neatly on the edge of the mat. He didn't bother taking off his shirt. He stood up in his socks, rolling his shoulders once. The air in the tavern suddenly felt heavier. The drunken shouting died down to a nervous murmur.
"Clock starts when you step to the center, old timer," Trent sneered, lifting his fists into a flawless Muay Thai guard.
Rusty raised his hand, looking at his wristwatch. "Three minutes. No eye gouging, no groin strikes. Defend yourself at all times. Go."
The moment Rusty's hand dropped, Trent exploded forward. He moved with the practiced, terrifying speed of a professional athlete. He didn't want to just win; he wanted to put on a show. He wanted a highlight reel knockout to brag about to his sycophantic students.
A vicious inside leg kick cracked against Clayton’s left thigh like a baseball bat. The sound echoed through the room. Clayton didn't wince. He didn't even blink. The leg absorbed the blow as if it were carved from ancient oak. Trent followed instantly with a lightning-fast one-two combination aimed directly at Clayton's jaw.
This was the moment the crowd expected the old farmer to fall. But Clayton’s head simply wasn't there. With a movement so slight it almost looked accidental, Clayton shifted his weight a fraction of an inch. The jab grazed his ear, the cross found only empty air. Clayton didn't counter; he merely stepped back, maintaining a perfectly measured distance.
Frustration flashed across Trent’s face. He threw a heavy, looping overhand right. Clayton casually raised his forearm, catching the blow on the thickest part of his bone, parrying the force away from his head. Trent spun into a flashy backfist, a move that usually guaranteed a dramatic knockout against untrained opponents.
Clayton ducked under it with the practiced efficiency of a man avoiding shrapnel. He didn't waste a single calorie of energy. His breathing remained slow and measured through his nose. In his mind, he wasn't in a tavern in July. The roaring crowd vanished, replaced by the deafening silence that always precedes an ambush.
Sixty seconds ticked by. Trent was throwing everything in his arsenal: spinning kicks, flying knees, rapid-fire boxing combos. He was a hurricane of aggressive motion. Clayton was a mountain. The farmer absorbed the strikes he couldn't dodge, turning his body to take the impact on the meaty parts of his shoulders and back. He was taking damage, yes. A cut opened above his right eyebrow, a thin line of crimson tracking down the side of his weathered face. His ribs were bruising into ugly shades of purple. But his expression never changed.
He was gathering data. In combat, survival depends on observation. Trent was fast, but he was wildly inefficient. He loaded up his right hand every time he prepared to throw a kick. He dropped his left hand when he threw a hook. He was fighting out of anger and ego, not strategy.