Your Fist Against Your Pride

Pain tore through Lu's wrist, and warmth spread beneath the tape around his ribs. He did not pursue. He stood still and said, “Eight seconds.” Only then did the referee begin counting. Han rose at seven, his face redder than his gloves. Rage stripped away his technique. Lu refused to trade. He parried, clinched, and pivoted, dismantling attacks with the defense hammered into him by three years of punishment. Those movements were no gift. They were answers left by every punch he had survived. Han failed to land another meaningful blow before the bell. “Winner: Lu Chenzhou.” Someone whispered, “How does he have Han's power?” “The force is similar,” Jiang Bailu said from the wall, “but that short route belongs to Lu.”