Anderson Silva was a man in his mid-thirties, bald, with a long list of victories as a hand-to-hand fighter. His tanned skin said much about his days under the sun. He pulled his fingers to let them crack before tightening his fists in a fighting stance.
Oswald lifted one finger up, he thought. 'They often put their hands in front of them, if I stay waiting like this, he'll catch me unprepared.' He put his hands in front of him, in a clawed way, ready to grab his enemy, he knew he'll certainly receive punches as greetings.
Colonel Silva patiently waited for Oswald to get mentally ready, he said. "First blood will end the fight." He had the authority to change the rules. "It applies to everyone on the training field." He added.
"Hah!" Oswald's laugh escaped his usual poker face. He was both happy and anxious to the idea he couldn't bleed anymore. He had to win, he was forced to.
He took a deep breathe, racking air against his throat to make it resound. 'I can do it.'
