The Undefeated Black Belt Shoved an Old Chicago Janitor Into Dirty Water for Internet Fame—Without Knowing He Had Once Trained Three Champions...

The bell rang for Round Two.

Mason stepped out of his corner slowly this time. He was no longer laughing. His flashy confidence had disintegrated, replaced by a desperate, aggressive frustration.

"Come on!" Mason screamed, slapping his own face to wake up his reflexes. "Fight me! Stop running, you coward!"

Thomas took two slow, deliberate steps forward. "I am standing right here, Mason."

Mason exploded forward with a desperate double-leg takedown, trying to use his thirty-pound weight advantage to slam the old man onto the canvas and drag him into a brutal ground-and-pound battle.

Thomas saw the level change instantly. Instead of sprawling backward like a modern fighter, Thomas utilized an ancient, devastating redirection technique from traditional combat arts.

He caught Mason under the armpits, stepped deep between Mason’s legs, and used Mason’s own forward momentum to lift the young champion entirely off his feet.

THUD!

Mason slammed back-first into the canvas with a sound that reverberated through the entire theater. The air rushed out of his lungs in a sickening gasp.

The crowd erupted into an absolute frenzy. People jumped out of their seats, screaming at the top of their lungs.

Mason rolled over, gasping for air, coughing desperately as he tried to push himself up. His pristine hair was matted with sweat and canvas dirt; his eyes were unfocused.

Thomas stood over him, not striking, not celebrating. He simply waited for Mason to stand up.

"Get up, Mason," Thomas said softly. "The floor is slippery. Watch your step."

The words hit Mason like a lightning bolt. They were the exact words Thomas had spoken in the gym when Mason had shoved him into the dirty water.

"Shut up!" Mason shrieked, scrambling to his feet, his face twisted in a mask of pure rage. He threw a wild, telegraphed left hook with everything he had left in his body.

Thomas didn't slip it this time.

He stepped directly into the strike's inner radius, blocking the forearm with his right guard, and delivered a devastating three-punch counter-combination straight through the middle of Mason’s open guard.

SNAP! SNAP! SNAP!

A short left jab to the nose. A sharp right palm strike to the solar plexus. A sweeping heel hook to the front ankle.

Mason’s feet flew out from under him. He hit the canvas a second time, hard, his Midwest Championship belt long forgotten, his nose leaking a dark stream of blood onto the white rubber floor.

In the front row, Grant Cole stood frozen, his crystal glass slipping from his hand and shattering on the concrete floor. His face was pale as chalk. His five-million-dollar empire, his son’s undefeated record, and his family’s arrogant narrative were crumbling before his eyes on live global television.

Mason laid on his back, looking up at the vaulted gold ceiling of the Auditorium Theatre. His chest heaved. His body ached in places he didn't know existed.

The referee began the count. "ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!"

"Get up!" Grant screamed from the floor, pounding his fist on the apron. "Get up, Mason! You're a Cole! Coles don't lose to janitors!"

Mason looked toward his father's voice, then turned his head to look at Thomas Hale.

Thomas was standing in his corner, his hands resting naturally at his sides. In Thomas's eyes, Mason didn't see hatred. He saw something far more terrifying: complete, absolute pity.

"FIVE! SIX! SEVEN!"

Mason tried to push himself up, but his knees buckled. His spirit was broken. The unstoppable, arrogant champion had been completely stripped of his illusion.

"EIGHT! NINE! TEN!"