Chapter 7 - The Masterclass
Mason moved instantly. True to his aggressive, explosive style, he sprinted across the canvas like a missile, throwing a blindingly fast, heavy lead right cross directly aimed at Thomas’s jaw. It was the same strike that had knocked out nine of his previous thirteen opponents.
The crowd gasped, expecting to see the sixty-eight-year-old man crumple to the canvas.
Thomas didn't cover up. He didn't jump back.
With a microscopic shift of his back foot, Thomas slipped his head half an inch to the left.
Mason’s fist sliced through empty air, the sheer momentum pulling the younger fighter forward. Before Mason could recover his balance, Thomas’s open palm snapped out like a whip, striking Mason precisely on the nerve bundle beside his collarbone.
THWACK!
Mason’s right arm went completely numb. He stumbled forward, his eyes wide in absolute shock.
"What the—" Mason gasped, spinning around.
Thomas was already gone, standing calmly three feet away, his guard low, his breath steady.
"Move your feet, Mason!" Grant shouted frantically from the front row, his suit jacket unbuttoned, his face turning red. "Don't load up! Pressure him!"
Mason gritted his teeth, his pride stinging far worse than the blow to his collarbone. He surged forward again, unleashing a flurry of five rapid punches—left hook, right uppercut, body shot, head kick.
It was a terrifying display of youth, power, and speed.
And yet, Thomas moved like water.
He didn't fight the storm; he let it pass through him. He leaned back just far enough for the hook to miss, parried the uppercut with his left forearm, stepped inside the body shot, and let the head kick whistle harmlessly over his ducked shoulder.
To the audience, it looked as though Thomas was reading Mason’s mind seconds before Mason even knew what punch he was going to throw.
"He’s not hitting him!" an announcer yelled into his microphone, his voice cracking with excitement. "Thomas Hale is completely negating the champion's offense with pure spatial mastery! Mason Cole is swinging at shadows!"
By the end of the first round, Mason was breathing heavily, sweat pouring off his chest. He hadn't landed a single clean strike. Thomas stepped back to his corner as the bell rang, his heart rate barely elevated, not a single hair out of place.
Marcus handed Thomas a stool, but Thomas waved it away. He remained standing, looking across the ring at Mason, who was collapsed on his corner stool, his trainers furiously rubbing his numbed shoulder.
"He’s timing your entry, Mason!" Rick Vance warned, splashing water on Mason’s face. "Stop chasing him! Make him come to you! He’s an old man—his legs will give out in the second round!"
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Mason looked across the ring. Thomas was standing tall, looking at him with eyes that contained no anger, no hatred, only an infinite, unyielding depth.
For the first time in his entire life, Mason Cole felt a cold, paralyzing terror taking root in his chest.
