It wasn’t a brawl; it was a masterclass in military-grade Close Quarters Combat. It was clinical. It was efficient. It was designed to neutralize a threat in under three seconds.
Arthur released the broken wrist, stepped inside Leo’s guard, and delivered a devastating palm strike directly to the center of Leo’s chest. The impact sounded like a sledgehammer hitting a side of beef. It knocked the wind entirely from Leo’s lungs, collapsing his diaphragm.
As Leo gasped silently for air, folding inward like a cheap lawn chair, Arthur followed through with a swift, brutal leg sweep. His heavy combat boot caught the back of Leo’s calves, launching the younger man backward into the air.
Leo flew backward, crashing violently through the large glass coffee table in the center of the living room.
The glass shattered into a thousand jagged pieces with an explosive crash, raining down over the expensive rug. Leo landed heavily in the wreckage, groaning, his body completely paralyzed by the sequence of catastrophic impacts.