Fight Night [2]

There I was, drenched in my own sweat, still buzzing from knocking Tommy "The Tank" flat on his ass. And just when I thought I could catch a breath, bask in my underdog glory for a hot second, Mr. Long had to crank up the drama like we were in some goddamn soap opera. But hey, this is Damon Ashburn's life—never boring, occasionally terrifying, and always a few punches away from a total knockout.

So, there I stood in the middle of the ring, feeling like the king of the world for all of five minutes before the announcer's voice boomed through the arena, shaking me out of my victory high. "Ladies and gentlemen, if you enjoyed that, you're gonna love what's coming next. Let's bring out his opponent for the second round of 'The Dragon City Beatdown Bonanza'!"

"Beatdown Bonanza?" I muttered under my breath. "Who the hell names these things? Sounds like a bad night at a taco truck."

The crowd was roaring, a sea of faces all hungry for more action, more blood, more drama. And me? I just wanted a nap and maybe a lifetime supply of Advil.

As the curtains parted, my next opponent stepped into the light, and holy hell, he looked like he ate people like me for breakfast. Sergei "The Siberian Express", a guy so terrifyingly huge, his muscles had muscles. I mean, the dude looked like he could bench press a small family.

"Fuck me," I whispered, staring up at him. This was not going to be fun.

Sergei grinned at me, a gold tooth glinting in the harsh overhead lights, giving him a pirate vibe if the pirate ate steroids and gym rats for snacks.

"Damon, I heard you're fast," he said, his voice thick with a Russian accent that made him sound like he was auditioning for a villain role in a Cold War flick. "Let's see if you can dodge this."

Before I could even brace myself, Sergei launched at me like a damn freight train. His first punch missed by a hair as I ducked, feeling the air swoosh like a hurricane right over my head.

"Jesus, this guy doesn't mess around," I thought, dancing back, trying to put some distance between me and those sledgehammer fists.

The crowd was loving it, every dodge, every weave, every moment that I somehow stayed on my feet. But I knew I couldn't keep this up forever. I had to think fast.

"Alright, system, time to do your thing," I muttered under my breath, hoping my new buddy, the Broke Man's System, had some tricks up its digital sleeve.

[Ding! "Fast Feet" activated! You've got 30 seconds of enhanced agility. Don't fuck it up.]

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," I grumbled, feeling my legs pump faster, my moves becoming blurrier.

I darted around Sergei, throwing jabs that were more annoying than painful, just trying to wear him down, make him tired, make him mad. And boy, did it work. He was swinging wilder, each miss making him angrier and sloppier.

"Come here, little rabbit," he growled, his voice rumbling like an old tractor.

"Nah, I'm good, thanks!" I called back, dodging another punch that would've probably sent me into next week.

But then, my 30 seconds ran out, and suddenly, I felt like I was moving through molasses. Fuck, this was bad.

Sergei's fist connected with a thud against my ribs, and pain exploded across my side. I gasped, stumbling back, and his eyes lit up like he'd just won the lottery.

"There you are!" he roared, coming at me again.

This time, I wasn't fast enough. His hand grabbed my robe, yanking me towards him, and his other fist came down like a hammer. I braced for impact, seeing stars before his knuckles even met my face.

Then, out of nowhere, a flash of something silver streaked through my vision, and Sergei's eyes went wide. His grip loosened, and I slipped free, scrambling back.

"What the—"

[Skill activated: Iron Man! You've got three hits on the house, buddy. Make them count.]

"Whoa," I breathed out, touching my face where Sergei's punch should have broken something. But there was no pain, just a dull thud where his blow landed.

I looked up, and Sergei was just as shocked as I was. His face, usually a mask of stoic toughness, was a picture of confusion. "What are you?" he muttered, staring at me like I'd just turned into a ghost.

"Just a guy who's really tired of getting punched," I shot back, getting my second wind.

With Iron Man still running, I knew I had a small window to turn this around. I charged, my fear replaced by a surge of adrenaline. If I was going down, I was going down swinging.

Sergei readied himself, but this time, I was faster—or maybe he was just slower, thinking he'd already won. I threw everything I had into three solid hits, targeting the spots that Mark taught me would really count.

The first hit landed on his gut, making him grunt. The second, I aimed for his chest, knocking the wind out of him. And the third, with all the force I could muster, I aimed right for his jaw.

Sergei stumbled back, a look of utter disbelief on his face. Then, slowly, like a giant redwood being felled, he began to topple. The crowd gasped, a collective inhalation that sucked the air from the room.

He hit the mat with a crash, and the referee started the count. I backed off, panting, my hands on my knees, watching as he struggled to make sense of what had just happened.

One... Two... Three...

I couldn't believe it. Was I actually going to win this?

Four... Five... Six...

Sergei pushed himself up to his elbows, shaking his head, trying to clear the cobwebs.

Seven... Eight...

But it was too late. He couldn't get up in time.

Nine... Ten!

The bell rang, and the crowd erupted. I had won. Again. Me, Damon Ashburn, the guy who thought high school gym class was a form of torture invented by sadists.

"Fuck yeah!" I yelled, throwing my hands up. Mark was at the side of the ring, cheering, his face split with a grin wide enough to eat the moon.

But before I could even begin to enjoy the victory, before the sweat had even dried on my brow, that same chilling voice filled the arena, turning my triumph into ice.

"Well done, Mr. Ashburn," Mr. Long's voice echoed, smooth as silk and cold as ice. "But the night is young, and your next challenge awaits."

The lights dimmed, and a spotlight hit the entrance. My heart sank as a new figure stepped into the light—a figure I recognized, one that brought with it a whole new set of problems and a sinking feeling in my gut.

It was Richard. Fucking Richard, my dear uncle, dressed in a suit that probably cost more than my car, smiling like the devil himself.

"Ready for round three, Damon?" he called out, his voice dripping with malice.

And there I was, thinking I'd had a rough night already. Little did I know, it was just the fucking appetizer.

As Richard climbed into the ring, all I could think was, "What fresh hell is this?"

And somewhere in the back of my mind, a little voice whispered, "You ain't seen nothing yet, kid."

The lights dimmed ominously as Mr. Long's voice continued to echo through the packed arena, chilling me more than the air-conditioned breeze brushing past my sweat-soaked back. "And now, for something a little different. Let's keep the entertainment going!"

"Great, what now? A fight against a fucking dragon?" I muttered, wiping the blood from my lip and barely catching my breath. The crowd was buzzing, a mix of excitement and that cruel thirst for spectacle you only get when blood's already been spilled.

Out of the shadows, a new figure emerged, striding towards the ring with the confidence of someone who knew they owned the place. It wasn't a dragon, but it might as well have been—my next opponent was none other than Bruno "The Bruiser", a guy so notorious in underground circles, rumors said he'd once knocked a guy out just by sneezing on him.

I groaned. "Why do I gotta fight four rounds consecutively? What is this, a Roman gladiator shit? Are you not entertained?" I shouted towards Mr. Long's booth, throwing my hands up in exasperation.

The crowd roared, some cheering, others booing—probably betting their kid's college funds on whether I'd make it out alive. Bruno climbed into the ring, cracking his knuckles like he was preparing to play a piano concerto on my ribs.

"Just my luck," I grumbled, squaring up as Bruno approached. "Guess it's time to dance with the devil, huh? Hope you don't mind if I step on your toes, big guy."