I struck out with a left middle-kick in the hopes of breaking Tan-Claude’s guard, but again Tan-Claude showed an instinct for out-maneuvering modern martial arts. He blocked my kick with his arm and charged at me—goddamn it.
The bull-kin chieftain and I landed on the mat and beat at each other with mid-body attacks. What had I been thinking, trying to go close-quarters on a man literally made of beef? It was totally ineffective! We traded blows, low-kicks, whatever we could, as if it was more full-contact, imitation-karate groping than proper grappling.
If I were fighting some stranger who suddenly rushed me, I’d focus my attack on my opponent’s lower guard. I was dealing with Tan-Claude’s attack with that thought in mind, but the crowd wanted more violence. I heard loud booing and yells.
“Quit just circling around each other!”
“The face! Hit him in his stupid face!”
“Your guard’s slipping, Shooter!”
“Is that the best the strongest warrior of a naked tribe can do?!”
As soon as we had some distance, Tan-Claude threw one of his favorite high-kicks at me.
Good. A big kick like that left a big opening.
“Keep it up!”
“Nngh!”
“Hrmph!”
His kick sliced through the air. Nope, too bad, ya bull-headed beefcake. There’d been times in my life when I had that same all-out, headlong philosophy.
But just when I thought his high-kick was going to swoop past me again, he spun and—oh shit oh no—threw a back roundhouse at me. I threw my arms up into a guard, but his foot pushed completely past them and slammed full-force into my face. This had to be breaking the rules; his legs were like hairy goddamn tree trunks.
“What are you doin’, Shooter?! Start pulverizin’ him!”
“You gotta use your legs, Shooter!”
“Oh, I know! Why don’t you hold him down with magic?”
“Try jumping on my brother’s back!”
Nishka and Wak’wakgoro jeered and yammered on at me from the stands. Buncha back-seat grapplers.
My mind was starting to cloud, but I lashed out as hard as I could with a front kick. I didn’t even get any distance first. But somehow, that knocked Tan-Claude out of his stance.
“Yes! Now throw some dust in his face!”
“He can’t do that. Blinding is against the rules!”
“You can do this, Shooter!”
“That’s not enough to beat my brother!”
If I let my attention slip for even a second to listen to them, I would lose the fight. Instead, I gestured at the spectators with one hand to say that nah, it wasn’t over, and I kept my eyes fixed on the beefy clod.
Back when I was learning with my old karate teacher, there was something he would always say: “Each technique grows from another. Use one as the fulcrum that pries open a window into your opponent’s weaknesses.” I hadn’t understood what that meant, but when he demonstrated the concept, it was simple.
My teacher grew up in the northern part of Okinawa. He was a smaller-than-average person, whereas I’m about average height and my shoulders are a little broader than usual. When my teacher matched up against me, the size difference was like an adult fighting a child.
And yet, despite my teacher having less reach, he would lure me in and then smoothly close in on me. He focused exclusively on disrupting my stance and before I realized it, his shoulder would be buried in my solar plexus and I’d fall to the mat in agony. Then he’d stand astride over me and—even though he didn’t hit me—make it clear that if this were a real fight, I would be dead.
His movements just flowed.
Obviously, I wouldn’t be able to recreate such fluid movements right here on the spot, but summoning up a chain of techniques rather than relying on a single attack was crucial. Like in boxing, you don’t stop once you’ve done “one, two.” It’s critical to move on to the third strike.
Bringing that same philosophy into this mudwrestling contest might give me a chance at victory—or not. If I got into a disadvantageous position during this match, Tan-Claude might not choose to put an end to the fight with one decisive strike. He could grind me into the ground and keep popping me with hits.
And for all practical purposes, there was no giving up.
I focused on resetting the match so I could switch from the breakdowns that were my best moves and introduce some finishing blows.
“What’s the matter? You’re looking a little beat. Hrmph.”
I didn’t respond. Instead, I hit Tan-Claude with a couple low roundhouses, watching his weight shift between legs, then tried to launch into another close-quarters fight. In that same instant, I tightened my fist and pounded it against his sternum with all my might.
He had been going for a punch intended to land hard on my chin, or maybe my jaw. But I was just a little bit faster and my fist drove hard into his sternum. My old karate master taught me that strike. It landed, and I saw the minotaur’s expression change. For a bull-kin, it must have been startling for a hit from a puny opponent to feel like it disrupted something inside his body.
His breathing grew ragged. I watched the shock move over his face as he realized what had happened, and I took that chance to put some distance between us.
This right-handed strike from a southpaw stance didn’t have any special name, but it was the ace up my sleeve. His breath struggling and uneven, Tan-Claude instantly threw up his guard to protect against my attack.
That was his mistake. My punch snaked in below his guard just as he expected, but then changed trajectory and connected with his jaw.
Tan-Claude Van Damme fell to the ground.