"Silva, you're going up against that blind guy who's been crushing all his opponents with ease. Since he started fighting, he's undefeated and the closest thing to a complete fighter. Your job is to weaken him enough so Alex can take the win in the next match. Got it?"
Robert, seated at a table, leaned toward Alex, Max's next opponent in the tournament.
As expected, Alex had displayed exceptional martial arts skills, winning each of his matches as planned. But Robert knew Alex couldn't beat Max outright. Still, Robert's goal was for Alex to represent him in the upcoming private European tournament.
If Alex could defeat an undefeated Max, known across the world of underground and official tournaments, it would catapult him into fame and ensure his acceptance into the European competition.
"Should I go for his face?" Silva asked, glancing at Robert, who looked relaxed.
Robert dismissed Silva's lack of intelligence with a sneer. "Don't be stupid. You won't even touch his face, not if you want to last. First, let him think he's in control. When he lowers his guard, aim for one of his limbs—try to injure him."
Silva nodded. He owed everything to Robert, who had paid for the orphanage he once called home. As one of Robert's fighters, Silva would do as instructed.
"I'll try," Silva said.
That's all Silva could do—try.
The idea of seriously injuring Max was almost laughable. Since the tournament began, Max had dominated every fight, leaving no doubt about his superiority. Hurting him was far from realistic.
But Robert, an experienced man, added after some thought, "Make him think you're about to surrender. I've seen him show mercy to his opponents before. That's your chance."
Max, until now, hadn't seriously injured any of his rivals. He often offered them the option to surrender, and if they refused, he intensified his strikes until they couldn't get back up.
Now that his strategy was known, those who wished to harm Max realized they had only a narrow window to act.
...
"The Semifinals Are About to Begin!"
The matches had been long and grueling, and the fighters were visibly more cautious. The exhaustion and adrenaline overuse were taking their toll on everyone.
Max, checking the rankings, learned his semifinal opponent was Silva, an eighteen-year-old skilled in high kicks. If he made it to the final, he'd face Alex Rosado, Robert's fighter—the one he needed to defeat.
"This is the semifinal. Don't get overconfident, especially with guys like these," Ryan advised Max, who so far hadn't needed to fight at full strength.
Miguel, busy with the betting pool, was certain Max would win effortlessly. After all, he'd had no real competition up to this point.
"I'm more nervous than he is," Miguel muttered.
Devon, observing Max's opponent, kept her thoughts to herself. She didn't know how tired Max really was, but she understood the next two matches would be decisive.
"I'm in good shape," Max said, bouncing lightly on his feet, confident that he wasn't injured.
Still, he couldn't deny he felt a little tired, and the soreness in his arms from absorbing so many hits was beginning to set in.
As time passed, the pain became more apparent.
Even so, Max was in peak condition to keep fighting.
Once he retied his hair, Max slipped his mouthguard in place and walked to the waiting area.
"If I win, someone dies."
Max's mind was fixated on one thing—winning.