The underground arena roared with excitement as Aryan stepped forward. His opponent, a lean and wiry fighter known as Serpent Fist, stood across from him, a sinister grin stretching across his face. The man’s arms swayed like a cobra, his movements fluid and unpredictable.

Aryan took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders. This was his second fight in the tournament, and the intensity had only increased. The bell rang.

Serpent Fist attacked instantly.

He dashed forward, his arms whipping out in unpredictable arcs. Aryan barely dodged as a strike nearly clipped his jaw. Serpent Fist’s blows weren’t meant to be strong—they were meant to wear him down, targeting joints, pressure points, and weak spots.

Aryan threw a punch, but his opponent weaved effortlessly to the side, countering with a rapid strike to Aryan’s ribs. A sharp sting coursed through his side.

“Tch… he’s fast.”

Serpent Fist’s style was elusive. His entire body coiled and twisted, making it difficult to predict his next move. He moved like liquid, never staying in one place long enough for Aryan to get a clean hit.

A Dance of Speed and Precision

Aryan tried to stay on the offensive, but every attack was met with a swift dodge. Each time he stepped in to strike, Serpent Fist retaliated with flickering, stinging jabs aimed at his elbows, knees, and neck.

Serpent Fist smirked. “You’re too stiff. Fighting me like a brawler won’t work.”

A sudden lunge—Serpent Fist snaked around Aryan’s defenses and locked an arm around his shoulder, twisting it painfully.

Aryan gritted his teeth. He struggled, but the grip was like steel. He could feel the tension building—if he didn’t break free, his arm could be dislocated.

The Counterattack

Instead of resisting, Aryan flowed with the movement, using the momentum to spin and slam an elbow into Serpent Fist’s ribs. The impact forced his opponent to release him, staggering back.

Aryan saw his opening.

Serpent Fist recovered quickly, but Aryan was already moving. He feinted a punch, forcing his opponent to lean back—exactly what he wanted.

A brutal knee strike to the stomach!

Serpent Fist gasped as the air left his lungs, his body curling inward from the blow.

But Aryan wasn’t done.

He grabbed Serpent Fist by the collar, lifting him slightly off the ground before slamming him down with full force.

Serpent Fist lay there, dazed. The referee counted.

10… 9… 8…

He didn’t get up.

Winner: spade!

The crowd erupted. Aryan exhaled heavily, his body aching from the precise blows he had taken. He looked at Serpent Fist, who groaned, barely conscious.

“You were strong,” Aryan muttered before walking off. He won—but he knew the fights were only going to get harder from here.