Somai scoffed, assuming his perfect mu tai thaai stance. Feet shoulder-width apart, hands up, elbows protecting his ribs, weight balanced. 130 fights had refined that stance to perfection. Bruce adopted his own stance. Feet closer together, weight back, hands in a position that looked simultaneously relaxed and ready to explode.
“Go ahead, Bruce,” he said expressionlessly. Somai immediately attacked with his favorite weapon. A low roundhouse kick, hardened shin aimed at Bruce’s thigh, intent on crippling the leg. It was the technique that had destroyed dozens of opponents. The leg spun with terrifying speed, the air whistling through the air. Second one.
Bruce moved forward into the arc of the kick before it generated power. His hand drove Somchai’s knee down, while his right fist shot toward Somchai’s throat, stopping an inch from contact. It could have crushed him. It didn’t. Second two.
Somchai, surprised but not intimidated, unleashed a boxing combination: jab, cross, hook. Perfect technique, real speed. Bruce dodged by moving his head precisely where needed, each punch passing exactly where his face had been a moment before. He countered with a palm strike to Somchai’s solar plexus, stopping at the contact without following through with force.
Another message. You’re open here too. Somchai’s friends stopped shouting. Something was wrong. This wasn’t what they expected. Second three. Somchai attempted a Thai clinch, grabbing Bruce’s head to gain control and unleash devastating knee strikes. His hands almost reached Bruce’s neck. Almost.
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.
