Bruce spun, broke the grip before it could form, and swept Somai’s supporting leg with perfect timing. Somai dropped to his hands and knees, rolled, and quickly got back to his feet, but every time he tried to reset, Bruce was there in position. Second four. Somai unleashed a spinning kick with all his might, a desperate, all-or-nothing technique.
If he connected with Bruce, he’d end up in the hospital. The leg sliced through the air with an audible hiss. Bruce stepped in, caught the ankle in midair with his left hand, and held the outstretched leg. Somai teetered on one completely vulnerable foot. Bruce looked straight into his eyes, held the leg for a full two seconds, displaying absolute control.
Then he lowered it gently without attacking the exposed knee. He could have destroyed him. He chose not to. Second five. Somchai, breathing heavily now, unleashed a savage combination. Fist, elbow, knee, kick, all without strategy. Pure aggression born of frustration. Eight consecutive blows. Bruce dodged each one without blocking, moving between them like smoke, making techniques perfected over 10 years of training strike only air.
Second six. Bruce stopped in the center of the space, completely motionless, waiting. Somai stopped too. Arms hanging limp, breathing heavy, not from physical exhaustion, but from the growing realization that nothing he knew was working. He had fought the best in Lumpini Stadium.
He’d traded blows with champions. He’d never faced someone who just wasn’t there when you landed a punch. Second seven. Somchai took one last step forward. He threw a final jab more out of pride than belief that it would connect. Bruce dodged it by moving his head two inches, and his own hand shot forward.
