No, Martinez thought, his heart skipping a beat as an ancient legend from the underground gyms of the 1970s flashed through his mind. It couldn't be. Not him.
"Eight!" Leo screamed, his pride shattering into a million jagged pieces. He threw a devastating overhand right—a finisher that had put heavyweight contenders into the hospital. It was a punch born of pure, unadulterated panic and rage.
Arthur didn't step back. With blinding, unimaginable speed for a man of seventy-one, he took half a step forward, sliding effortlessly inside the lethal arc of the looping punch. The heavy glove crashed against the steel pillar behind him with a sickening clang, sending a shockwave of pain shooting up Leo’s forearm.
Leo stumbled forward, off balance, his breath exploding from his lungs in a ragged gasp.
"Nine," Arthur whispered calmly, standing right beside him, completely untouched, his hands still resting peacefully in his pockets.
Leo spun around, his face purple with fury, tears of humiliation stinging the corners of his eyes. "One more! One more punch! You haven't beaten me yet!" He cocked his left arm back for a final, desperate, full-power knockout blow aimed straight at Arthur's jaw.
Arthur looked up at him—not with anger, nor with triumph, but with an infinite, heartbreaking pity.
"The tenth punch, Mr. Vance," Arthur said softly, his voice dropping an octave, carrying the authority of a supreme master, "is the one you throw at yourself."
Leo froze mid-swing.
Before his fist could complete its arc, Arthur moved. With a blur of motion so fast the human eye could barely track it, Arthur’s right hand flicked out of his pocket like a striking viper. He didn't hit Leo in the face. Instead, his open palm struck three precise pressure points—under the floating rib, at the base of the sternum, and a sharp tap behind the knee.
It was an exquisite, forgotten application of ancient defensive redirection—a masterclass in turning an opponent's own overwhelming momentum against them.
Leo’s legs buckled instantly. The heavy champion spun around twice from the force of his own unspent momentum and crashed hard onto his hands and knees on the canvas-covered concrete floor, gasping for air as if he had just been dropped from a ten-story building.
Chapter Six: The Awakening
The gym was paralyzed. Nobody moved. Nobody breathed.
Leo knelt on the floor, his hands trembling against the concrete, his chest heaving as cool sweat dripped from his chin. His pride, his invincibility, his twenty-two consecutive knockouts—all of it had evaporated in less than thirty seconds against a man old enough to be his grandfather.
Slowly, Arthur walked over to where his broom rested against the pillar. He picked it up, adjusted his grip, and began sweeping up a tiny pile of dust near the heavy bag stand, as if nothing extraordinary had just occurred.