A Black Belt Champion Picked a Quiet Man for a Fight to Amuse the Crowd — He Smiled: “Are You Sure?”
Chapter 4
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Suddenly, Thomas was entirely inside Derek's guard, standing uncomfortably close.For a fraction of a second, Derek froze. The spatial dynamic was wrong. In point fighting and even in most MMA, distance is a weapon; you strike from the end of your reach. But Thomas had effortlessly collapsed that distance without throwing a single strike. He was standing in the eye of the hurricane, his breathing slow and even."You leave your chin up when you throw the cross," Thomas whispered gently, his voice only audible to the champion.Derek felt a flush of hot anger crawl up his neck.The crowd had gone strangely quiet. They hadn't seen any spectacular hits, but the collective subconscious of the room recognized that something was entirely off-script. The tiger was pouncing, but the mouse wasn't scurrying; the mouse was just standing there, critiquing the tiger's form."Shut up, old man!" Derek hissed, shoving Thomas backward to create space.Thomas yielded to the shove perfectly, riding the momentum backward, remaining perfectly balanced.Over by the VIP section, an older man with cauliflower ears and a clipboard—a veteran wrestling coach named Jim Gibson—leaned forward in his folding chair. His eyes narrowed, tracking Thomas's footwork."Look at his feet," Gibson muttered to the promoter sitting next to him. "He's not stepping. He's gliding. No wasted motion. My God, he's cutting angles before the kid even loads his hips."Derek, now thoroughly humiliated by his inability to land even a glancing blow, abandoned the playful exhibition mentality. The flashiness disappeared, replaced by genuine aggression. He rushed forward, throwing a heavy, looping overhand right, intending to genuinely hurt Thomas.As the punch came, Thomas finally brought his hands up. But he didn't form fists; his hands remained open, relaxed.As Derek's heavy right arm swung toward his jaw, Thomas stepped into the attack again. His left hand shot up, not to block, but to intercept: he caught Derek's wrist mid-swing, using the champion's own violent forward momentum against him with a fluid, twisting motion that seemed to defy the laws of leverage.Thomas pivoted, guided Derek's arm downward, and stepped his right foot behind Derek's lead leg. It wasn't a brutal judo throw; it was a microscopic disruption of gravity. Thomas lightly pressed his right palm against Derek's chest.Derek's feet flew out from under him. He was suddenly airborne, the ceiling lights spinning above him before gravity reasserted itself violently. He hit the mat flat on his back with a resounding crack that echoed off the high ceiling. The air rushed out of Derek's lungs in a pained, wet gasp.The entire arena fell dead silent. Three hundred people stopped breathing at once.Thomas didn't follow him to the ground. He didn't strike a triumphant pose. He simply took a step back, adjusted his glasses on the bridge of his nose, and looked down at the gasping champion."Are you done, son?" Thomas asked, his tone identical to the one he had used when asking the girl to hold his coffee.