Bruno stood inside his palace's private gymnasium. His hands were wrapped in far more modern boxing gloves than he had worn in decades past.
Each punch thrown was designed with absolute intent. Jab, jab cross, elbow, jab, cross body kick.
He moved lightly despite his age, always on the balls of his feet. He planted only to strike, hips rotating through each impact before pivoting away.
His son Erwin held the bag in place, lest after a single kick it would sway so wildly Bruno would need to reset it.
Erwin could feel the pressure despite hanging behind the heavy bag, which stood nearly as tall as himself. His father was throwing with the speed and power of a man a decade younger, perhaps even two decades younger.
Bruno, however did not cease his assault. Continuing to exhale beneath each strike, every punch loading up the next shot, action and reaction. Thesis and antithesis. A full five minutes passed before the buzzer rang, and Bruno halted his attack.
