A senior brawler’s disdain

Then muttered, "Tch… not gonna let this rookie intimidate me."

Gabriel didn't move.

Didn't blink.

Didn't need to.

He simply raised one hand four fingers extended, palm inward.

Then, with a smooth, almost contemptuous flick of the wrist, he beckoned.

A ghost of a smile tugged at his lips.

Razor-edged. Calm.

Deadly confident.

Gabriel (quiet and lethal):

"The pain should be gone by now."

"No more excuses… Rocky."

"Show me… the extent of your evolution."

Rocky launched forward.

air-fists fired in rapid succession like cannonballs.

Gabriel moved.

Leaned.

Turned.

Kicked.

THUMP.

One missed.

The next grazed his shoulder.

The third evaporated into the wind.

Gabriel's eyes flashed irises glowing violet.

They dilated reading motion, tension, momentum.

He pivoted.

Heel twist. Tendon compressed.

Release.

CRACK.

A superhuman kick smashed Rocky's arms.

Rocky growled, staggered, but didn't fall.

Then something clicked.

Rocky saw it.

The glow.

The calm.

The…..eyes.

That's how he's dodging.

His vision, it's predicting everything.

Rocky charged again three compressed air-fists fired like cannonballs once more.

Gabriel moved with eerie grace not out of speed, but certainty. He didn't dodge out of instinct; he dodged because he'd already seen the move before it happened.

He leaned back just enough.

Twisted at the waist, like a rope uncoiling.

One blast missed.

Another skimmed his shoulder.

The third dissolved into the air.

Again.

It was the same sequence repeating like a broken loop.

For Rocky, it was getting pathetic.

A senior brawler, stuck in a predictable rhythm.

This wasn't combat anymore it was becoming a rehearsal.

And worst of all?

He realized… he had been playing it safe.

Somewhere in the flurry of punches and pressure bursts, he'd slipped into patterns

The first warning sign to any pro:

He was going to lose.

And lose fast.

Moves that used to work?

They didn't anymore.

Not against someone like Gabriel.

Gabriel hadn't just dodged his attacks

He'd gotten into his head.

Gabriel's violet eyes flared not wide, but razor-focused.

They tracked every twitch in Rocky's body momentum, breathing, pressure buildup.

He was feeding off every micro-movement, every subtle shift.

And those eyes…

They weren't just watching.

They were thriving.

Then he moved. Clean. Silent. Mechanical.

His heel dug into the ground. His torso coiled.

And with a sudden blur, his leg snapped outward in a wide arc

CRACK!

It collided with Rocky's thigh, the strike landing like a steel pipe.

This was a roundhouse kick a technique from taekwondo where the body turns sideways and the shin or top of the foot whips across the opponent, like a swinging blade.

Rocky grunted, pain ripping up his leg

But he didn't fall.

It was becoming a pattern now.

Take the hit. Stay standing. Try again.

The senior brawler, reduced to a punching bag.

And the worst part?

Gabriel hadn't even used seventy percent yet.

Not even close.

Rocky could feel it in the impact. The weight behind those kicks was devastating…

But still held back.

One more like that, and he knew

His body wouldn't stand the next one.

Then he saw it.

Not the movement. Not the attack.

Inner Monologue (Rocky's Realization):The glow.

The calm.

The eyes.

Those damn eyes.

He's dodging everything like it's easy mode.

Reading me before I even move.

Those freaking eyes…

Every punch, every shift in my stance he is predicting it before I even move. It's getting really annoying.

Tch. It's not the legs that's my problem... its those damn eyes.

So this is how he fights.

No effort.

Calculating.

Like he was five moves ahead and I was still figuring out step one.

Even his legs they hurt like hell.

Now he's anticipating me on top of it?

My body was screaming from those tendon-loaded kicks, definitely not seventy percent yet crap.

Now my strikes my entire style were being unraveled like some basic martial arts textbook.

I need to break this pattern. Change the momentum.

Think, Rocky. Think.

Eyes. It's all in the eyes.

How do I change the pace… break the script…!

Come on, Rocky. Think.

Think.

It's all in the eyes…

How do I turn them against him?

Then it clicked.

A grin pulled at the corner of Rocky's mouth.

That's it.

In all his years of fighting, there was one truth he knew deep in his bones

No matter how sharp your vision is,

There's one thing you can't predict.

He can't stop this.

Rocky shouted across the arena, voice echoing with heat and challenge.

"You wanna see everything, Gabriel?!"

He dropped into his stance, eyes gleaming.

"Be my guest."

"Game on."

But Rocky wasn't just a brawler. He had learned from legends.

He grinned — just a twitch — and slipped into a new stance.

His left shoulder dipped low, right fist near his chin, elbows tight to his ribs.

This was the Philly Shell Defense a style from boxing where the fighter stays relaxed and coiled, protecting the head with one arm while the other is ready to counter.

It's slick. Defensive. Deceptive.

If he's reading me like a textbook... then it's time to scramble the pages.

Rocky began punching not to hit, but to build pressure.

Jab. Hook. Jab. Uppercut. Miss. Miss. Miss.

But each miss left behind pulsing air, compressed and shaking.

FWOMP. FWOMP. FWOMP.

The air bent like elastic around them.

Then came the real strike:

A leaping, rising punch a gazelle punch launched from low ground to high, like a rocket uppercut riding wind.

Gabriel's eyes flashed again.

His heel rotated sharply on the floor.

He spun his body fast leg lifting mid-turn, building force in the rotation.

It was a spinning hook kick a taekwondo move where the fighter rotates fully and whips the heel in a reverse arc, like swinging a hammer from behind.

THWACK!

The two attacks collided air burst between them, a pulse shockwave rippling outward.

Both fighters staggered back.

Gabriel's face didn't change. But his posture did.

He dropped lower, tendons flexing visibly beneath his skin. His entire leg tightened like a spring, as if charging for something far worse.

Rocky bounced on the balls of his feet. Breathing controlled. Calm.

No more mindless offense.

This wasn't just a fight.

This was a conversation in movement

Muscle vs Tendon.