OUT FOR BLOOD
By Jarrod A. Freeman
Chapter 1: The Iron Standard
The air inside the Melbourne Arena was thick, smelling of ozone, sweat, and the copper tang of adrenaline. Under the blinding halogen array, Dalton Cody stood motionless, a statue carved from granite and scar tissue. At thirty-eight, he was considered "old" for the fighting circuit, but Dalton didn't fight with youth; he fought with physics.
Across the canvas stood Marcus "The Sledgehammer" Bane, a twenty-five-year-old heavyweight in his prime, bouncing on the balls of his feet, muscles twitching with explosive fast-twitch potential. Bane was a brawler—all force, no geometry.
The referee chopped his hand down. "Fight!"
Bane didn't waste a second. He launched himself forward, throwing a looping overhand right intended to decapitate. The crowd roared, expecting blood.
Dalton didn't retreat. He didn't even blink. He initiated the Iron Mind protocol, his pulse slowing as the world around him decelerated into a series of vectors and angles.
As Bane's fist approached, Dalton stepped forward—not back—into the "Dead Zone." He moved at a precise 45-degree angle, slipping inside the arc of the punch. It was the core tenet of Tetsuryoku-Ryū: occupy the space the opponent needs to generate power.
Kinetic chain engaged.
Dalton's left forearm rose, meeting Bane's bicep with the density of a steel pipe. The Iron Body conditioning—decades of striking sandbags, wood, and iron—paid off. The sound of impact was sickening, a wet thud of flesh hitting something unyielding. Bane gasped, his arm deadened instantly by the nerve strike.
Dalton didn't stop. He pivoted on his lead foot, utilizing Tenkan—the turning of the body—to generate torque without muscular strain. He drove a short, vertical punch, a Tate-Zuki, directly into Bane's solar plexus.
It wasn't a push; it was a percussive wave. Bane's diaphragm seized. The oxygen was vacuumed from his lungs.
"Structure compromised," Dalton whispered, the words lost in the noise of the arena.
He finished it with a low leg kick, not to the thigh, but to the peroneal nerve just below the knee. Bane's leg buckled as if the bone had dissolved. The giant man collapsed, hitting the canvas face-first.
The silence that followed was heavier than the roar. Then, the eruption.
"Winner! And four-time champion... Dalton Cody!"
Dalton breathed out, a long, sharp hiss through his teeth—Ibuki breathing—forcing the carbon dioxide out and re-oxygenating his blood. He felt the familiar weight of the gold belt being draped over his shoulder, but the dopamine hit never came.
His eyes immediately scanned the VIP box, third row, seat A4.
It was empty.
Dalton frowned. Elena never missed a fight. She was his anchor, the soft reality that existed outside the hard geometry of his violence.
He pushed past the referee, ignoring the ring girls and the outstretched microphones of the press. He vaulted the ropes, landing silently on the concrete floor, and sprinted toward her seat.
"Elena?" he called out, his voice cutting through the ambient noise.
The seat was cold. On the crushed velvet cushion, there was no purse, no coat. Just a single object.
Dalton picked it up. It was a torn scrap of fabric—thick, blue cotton with a reinforced weave. He ran his thumb over it. Kurtka material. The fabric used in Russian Sambo jackets.
Pinned to the fabric was a jagged, crudely drawn symbol in black marker: a double-headed eagle with a cracked skull in its talons.
The ambient noise of the arena faded into a dull buzz, like static on a dead channel. Dalton's heart rate didn't spike; it dropped. The Iron Mind took over, suppressing the panic, locking away the fear of losing her, and replacing it with a cold, terrifying clarity.
This wasn't a fan souvenir. This was a calling card.
A heavy hand landed on his shoulder. "Dalton, mate, you can't be down here, the ceremony is—"
Dalton grabbed the security guard's wrist. He didn't squeeze, but he applied just enough pressure to the ulnar nerve to make the man's knees wobble.
"Did you see her?" Dalton asked, his voice low, vibrating with a frequency that triggered primal alarms in the guard's brain. "My wife. Did you see who took her?"
The guard stammered, eyes wide. "Two men... big guys. They... they escorted her out during the second round. I thought she was sick. They looked like... military."
Dalton released the guard. He looked at the scrap of blue fabric in his hand. The Russian mob.
He dropped the championship belt on the empty seat. It was just metal and leather now. Useless weight.
"Keep it," Dalton said to the stunned guard.
He turned toward the exit, his gait shifting. He was no longer walking like an athlete who had just won a sport. He was walking like a soldier entering a war zone. The tournament was over. The hunt had begun.