Chapter 6 - Sixty Seconds
Mason Cole did not wait. Driven by embarrassment, anger, and the crushing pressure of the thousands watching, he exploded out of his corner with maximum velocity.
He threw a lightning-fast left jab followed immediately by a devastating right cross—the exact combination that had knocked out seven of his previous professional opponents.
"DIE!" Mason roared.
The right cross cut through the air with terrifying force.
Thomas Hale did not cover up. He did not jump backward in panic.
As the fist came within an inch of his jaw, Thomas leaned his upper body back by a fraction of an inch. The glove brushed harmlessly through empty air. Before Mason could pull his arm back, Thomas’s left hand shot out like a strike from a hidden spring, tapping the inner wrist of Mason’s extended arm.
The slight tap redirected Mason’s massive forward momentum. Mason stumbled forward, completely off-balance, his chest crashing violently against the top rope.
The arena went completely silent.
Mason spun around, his eyes wide with shock and fury. "Lucky slip!" he snarled.
He charged again, this time throwing a sweeping low kick aimed directly at Thomas’s knee, intending to break the old man’s base.
Thomas simply lifted his lead leg, letting the kick pass harmlessly underneath. As Mason’s kicking leg swung through empty air, Thomas stepped inward into the pocket—the absolute danger zone.
Before Mason could raise his guards, Thomas placed his open palm softly against the center of Mason’s chest.
He did not strike with violent force; instead, he executed a short, explosive exertion of internal force—a classic master-level palm thrust.
THUMP.
The sound echoed through the silent arena like a cannon shot.
Mason was lifted off his feet, launched backward through the air, and crashed hard onto his back in the center of the ring.
The crowd let out a collective, gasp of absolute disbelief.
In the VIP suite, Grant Cole slammed his hands against the glass, his jaw wide open.
Mason lay on the canvas, winded, staring up at the stadium ceiling lights in absolute confusion. His lungs burned. He couldn't breathe. He had never been knocked down in his entire life.
"Five!" the referee began counting. "Six!"
"Get up, Mason!" Grant screamed from the VIP balcony. "GET UP!"
Mason scrambled to his feet, his face red with humiliation, his breathing ragged. He looked across at Thomas.
Thomas was standing in the exact same spot, his hands held low, his expression entirely passive. He had not even broken a sweat.
"Is this what your father taught you?" Thomas asked softly, his voice carrying clearly across the quiet ring. "To swing wildly when you are hurt?"
"Shut up!" Mason screamed. He lunged forward again, throwing a wild, desperate barrage of hooks and uppercuts.
Thomas moved like water.
Left weave, right slip, step inside, deflect. Every single strike Mason threw hit empty air or was redirected effortlessly into empty space. Thomas was moving with such fluid grace that it appeared as though he were reading Mason’s thoughts seconds before they manifested into action.
Ten seconds remained in the first round.
Mason, completely exhausted and mentally broken, reached out to grab Thomas’s collar in a desperate attempt to drag the old man to the canvas.
Thomas captured Mason’s wrist in mid-air.
With a wrist lock technique so fast the human eye could barely track it, Thomas rotated his hips, applied gentle downward leverage, and brought Mason down to his knees.
Mason was pinned. His arm was locked tightly behind his back. He was forced onto his knees in the center of the ring, staring directly down at the black canvas beneath him—in the exact same posture he had forced Thomas to assume in the gym three days prior.
The arena clock hit zero.
DING! DING! DING!
The round was over.
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Thomas released the wrist lock, stepped back, and stood quietly in his corner.
Mason remained on his knees, gasping for air, trembling with an overwhelming, suffocating sense of helplessness.
