Chapter 17 - The Trial of Iron
The arena exploded into a deafening roar as Thomas Hale and Marcus Vance emerged from the tunnel. The crowd, overwhelmingly filled with South Side residents, blue-collar workers, and young kids from the athletic center wearing custom white t-shirts, chanted in unison: "ETHAN! ETHAN! ETHAN!"
Across the cage, entering from the opposite entrance, stood Gregor Volkov and Kai Tanaka. Volkov was a mountain of muscle, covered in traditional Eastern European combat tattoos, his face cold and expressionless. Tanaka was lean, vascular, and bounced on his toes with terrifying, predatory speed. Victor Vance stood at the foot of their corner, holding a cigar, looking up at his son with a smirk of absolute disdain.
"Ladies and gentlemen!" the ring announcer boomed over the public address system. "This is the FINAL ROUND of the Chicago Combat League Open-Weight Invitational! Fifteen minutes of continuous bare-knuckle combat for the world championship and the thirty-million-dollar grand purse!"
The cage door slammed shut with a heavy metallic sound. Referee Miller stepped into the center, giving the fighters a quick, biased briefing. "Clean fight in the center. Obey my commands at all times. Touch gloves if you want."
Neither team touched gloves.
DING!
The bell rang. Marcus Vance started the bout, stepping forward in a tight, defensive peek-a-boo guard. Kai Tanaka rushed out of his corner instantly, throwing a lightning-fast spinning back kick aimed directly at Marcus’s throat.
Marcus slipped the kick by millimeters, ducking under Tanaka’s leg and driving a heavy right hook into Tanaka’s ribs. The sound of bare knuckles connecting with ribs echoed through the ringside microphones like a gunshot.
Tanaka gasped, retreating rapidly toward his corner. Before Marcus could capitalize, Gregor Volkov illegally tagged himself into the ring, stepping through the ropes without waiting for the referee’s signal.
"Hey! Illegal tag!" Viktor Rossi screamed from the corner.
Referee Miller ignored the violation, stepping out of the way as the massive Volkov charged Marcus like a runaway freight train. Volkov grabbed Marcus in a brutal front headlock, driving his massive knee repeatedly into Marcus’s solar plexus.
Marcus blocked the knee strikes with his arms, but the sheer weight of the two-hundred-and-forty-pound fighter began to crush his posture against the steel chain-link fence.
"Marcus! Tag!" Thomas yelled, extending his hand over the top rope.
Marcus fought against Volkov’s iron grip, his face turning red from oxygen deprivation. With a sudden burst of explosive spirit, Marcus planted his feet, drove his elbow into Volkov’s liver, and lunged across the canvas, making a diving tag to touch Thomas’s extended palm.
The crowd roared as Thomas Hale vaulted over the top rope into the ring.
Volkov turned, grinning wickedly, and stepped forward to destroy the smaller fighter. He threw a telegraphed, devastating right haymaker intended to take Thomas’s head off his shoulders.
Thomas didn't duck. He didn't back away. He stepped into the strike's arc, pivoting on his left heel with fluid, effortless elegance. He caught Volkov’s wrist with his left hand and guided the massive man's momentum past his chest, executing a flawless Judo shoulder throw (Ippon Seoi Nage).
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The heavy two-hundred-and-forty-pound fighter flew through the air and slammed onto the canvas with a bone-shattering impact that shook the entire cage floor.
The United Center erupted into absolute madness.
