The Mystery Fighter

The Mystery Fighter (6)

This so-called "Black Jack" was better than I thought.

My first impression of him had left me believing that he was too over his head and cocky to properly throw decent hits and kicks. He proved me wrong when he began the fight with a fast snap-punch towards my stomach.

I just barely dodged it by quickly jumping back, losing my stance for a second. After dodging a few more unsuccessful hits, I decided it was time to test how he handled attacks. Switching my mind from defense to charge, I steadily approached him.

I faked a gut punch on the left side of his body. As he went to dodge it, I quickly threw a hard right hook. Not wanting to let him get any time to reassemble himself, I continued with my left-hand gut punch, feeling satisfied when he doubled over.

I had expected him to use some time to try and catch the breath he had just lost but was surprised when his fist connected with the side of my face. While the throw felt a bit sluggish, I could still feel the burning sensation on my cheek, and my head whipped to the side from the force of the blow. Rage and adrenaline pumped through my veins as I quickly snapped my head back.

That would be the only punch he would land on me.

As he made the foolish decision to throw another right hook, everything around me blurred and I focused solely on my opponent.

Blocking the blow with my left hand, I punched him on the left side of his head before reaching back behind the neck and bringing him down so he was bending forward. I landed a solid blow to his stomach with my knee cap, before finally finishing him with a final punch to the face with my elbow, sending him sprawling backward onto the floor.

Cheers from drunken viewers brought me back to reality. I blinked a few times to adjust my eyes to the lighting in the bar around me, feeling the pumping adrenalin-rush slowly calm down. I glanced at the man on the platform. There were little rules in these fights. The only way out was to win or be knocked out.

The man seemed to be unconscious on the floor in front of me. He had obviously not been a fighter; only a man who had stepped onto the platform thinking he was about to brawl. He had used little proper fighting techniques and had only relied on muscle power and strength.

Not feeling any remorse for the guy, I made my way over to where the host was announcing the winner of the fight.

Suddenly remembering my promise to Celine about being home within the hour, I quickly gathered my winnings from the fight and rushed to the bar counter where I had last spoken to the bartender. As the man, Anthony I faintly remembered him calling himself, was nowhere in sight, I took matters into my own hands and jumped over the counter to retrieve my bag. Within the next second, I was already rushing out of the bar. I looked at the time on my phone as I jogged to my motorcycle and noticed that it was past the time of my promised return. After throwing on my helmet, ignoring the pain on my cheek, and stuffing the money in my jacket pocket, I raced out from the valley towards a, hopefully, sleeping Celine.

When I got home, the house was silent and my sister was peacefully sleeping on the double bed with the nightstand lamp still on. Sighing in relief, I turned the lamp off and carefully closed the door behind me before heading to the bathroom for a quick shower.

I grazed the forming bruise on my cheek in front of the bathroom mirror and sighed in exasperation. I shouldn't be so careless when I fight, especially when it came to receiving punches and kicks to the face. Those bruises and wounds were harder to explain to Celine.

As I relaxed back into the bed, I went through all the things I would have to do this week. I was supposed to have quite a big test just a few days away, so I would have to make time for studying. However, I would definitely go back to the bar in the next few days. I had gathered a surprisingly good amount of money on that one fight, definitely more than I got from those secluded street fights on the streets of Range Lake.