The showdown was finally about to begin.
Under the glare of countless cameras and reporters' flashes, Luke and Tyson stepped into the ring from opposite sides.
Tyson stood 5'10" and weighed about 220 pounds. His dark skin made his muscular, steel-like physique even more intimidating. Nicknamed "The Beast," he radiated a kind of wild, dangerous energy that made everyone feel his oppressive presence.
Luke, on the other hand, was 6'1", weighing only 167 pounds. Dressed in a crisp white uniform, he looked lean and graceful. The muscle definition visible beneath his sleeves was smooth and sculpted, almost artistic.
Just comparing appearances, the two didn't look like they were in the same league at all.
Though Luke had the advantage in height and reach, the massive weight difference meant Tyson should have an overwhelming edge in strength and endurance.
By boxing standards, Luke would be a welterweight—around the fifth class—while Tyson was a heavyweight, the highest division. That was a three-tier gap between them.
So it was no surprise that few in the audience had faith in Luke. Most thought if he could last two or three rounds, it would already prove that martial arts weren't just for show.
After all, that weight difference was no joke.
The referee stepped between them, briefly explaining the rules.
The match would follow basic MMA regulations—mixed martial arts. Both sides could use techniques from boxing, Brazilian jiu-jitsu, Muay Thai, wrestling, taekwondo, karate, judo, or sanda.
Both stand-up strikes and ground fighting were allowed.
Headbutts, eye gouging, groin kicks, biting, and downward elbow strikes were forbidden. Everything else was fair game.
Talking during the match was permitted.
There would be three rounds, each lasting five minutes.
Once the referee finished reading the rules, the bell rang. He quickly stepped aside, leaving the space between them clear.
Tyson raised his fists, smirking as he taunted, "Yellow monkey, I'm not gonna knock you out right away. Where's the fun in that? I wanna see the fear in your eyes—that's the sweetest thing in the world."
A Fox News reporter watching from ringside couldn't help but mutter, "Why does he always have to sound like the bad guy?"
Another journalist frowned. "Is Tyson planning to toy with him?"
"Of course not," replied a more experienced reporter. "He's too seasoned for that. He's just trying to throw Luke off—mess with his head and look for an opening."
Tyson began to close in, step by step, trying to pressure Luke with his size. If Luke backed off even slightly, it would show weakness. But if he dared to stand his ground, that would play right into Tyson's plan—a perfect setup for a crushing counterattack.
Despite his arrogant words, Tyson's movements were calculated, cautious, and professional.
But just as Tyson advanced, Luke suddenly lunged forward.
Tyson reacted instantly, raising his guard to block and preparing to counter with a vicious hook.
However—
As Luke stepped in, his body twisted like lightning, his waist snapping with explosive force as he drove a powerful front kick straight ahead!
It was a perfect blend of speed and strength. The crowd barely saw the movement—it was over in the blink of an eye.
Crack!
A sharp, bone-breaking sound echoed through the arena.
Tyson's tightly guarded arms buckled under the impact, and before anyone could even process what happened, his entire body flew backward over thirty feet, crashing heavily onto the mat.
He didn't move.
The entire venue fell silent.
For ten full seconds, all that could be heard was the collective breathing of the crowd.
Everyone stood frozen. Their understanding of reality had just been shattered.
That's it?
The mighty heavyweight champion Tyson couldn't even withstand one blow from Luke?
That kick must've packed over 1,500 pounds of force!
Could a human even kick that hard?
The Fox News reporter suddenly remembered Luke's gesture before the fight—he had raised one finger. The man gave a wry laugh. "So that's what he meant—not one round, but one kick..."
"Is Tyson okay?"
"Doctor! Where's the medic? Get up there, quick!" someone shouted as the stunned crowd snapped out of it.
Meanwhile, Luke calmly jumped off the ring and headed back to his team's corner.
He wasn't surprised. With his master-level skill boosts, his punching power alone could rival Tyson's—maybe even exceed it a bit.
But this wasn't boxing. Kicks carry far more force than punches.
If you can use your legs, why waste time with your fists?
Today, Luke had used the Northern Leg Style's signature piercing kick—the same move legendary folk hero Wu Song supposedly used to beat down Jiang Menshen in old martial arts tales.
At his master-level proficiency, that kick's force easily exceeded 1,500 pounds.
The audience's shock was understandable—they simply had no idea how strong Luke truly was.
His master-level swordsmanship let him handle ten armed thugs single-handedly. His master-level throwing technique turned him into a walking sniper rifle.
So with master-level unarmed combat—a fusion of both—did he really need a drawn-out fight against Tyson?
That would've been an insult to the system itself.
When Luke returned to his corner, his friends were staring at him like he was some kind of monster.
"The kick you just used… that's the same one you've been teaching me?" Vin Diesel asked, wide-eyed.
"When you hit master level, yeah, it'll look about the same," Luke replied casually—conveniently skipping the part where it would take decades of dedication and talent to reach that point.
"I don't even know what to say," director Cohen said, still filming. "What I just captured might become a historic piece of footage."
"With what you showed today," said director Johnston, "every time Hollywood directors think of action films, even if they don't cast you, your face will flash through their minds."
Mr. Eisen didn't say anything—he just smiled at Luke.
Luke never failed to surprise him. He was now certain Luke was destined to become a legend.
"Mr. Eisen, didn't you say there was a paramedic friend of yours here today?" Luke asked suddenly.
"What's wrong? Are you hurt?" Eisen looked him over, puzzled.
"Not me," Luke said. "Have him check on Tyson."
He knew exactly what had happened—his kick had probably knocked Tyson unconscious. A few broken bones, sure, but nothing life-threatening.
"You want to help Tyson? I thought you hated the guy," Eisen said.
"Oh, I definitely hate him," Luke admitted. "But killing him isn't necessary. Sometimes, breaking someone's pride does more damage than breaking their body."
He smiled faintly. "From now on, unless he's an idiot, Tyson will side with us. He's still useful."
Eisen nodded thoughtfully. "True. Unless he can beat you—which he can't—the only way for him to save face is to go around praising how powerful martial arts are. That way, his loss doesn't seem humiliating."
Exactly. Tyson wouldn't challenge Luke again; the difference between them was too vast.
The smartest move for Tyson now was to completely flip his attitude—to become the loudest supporter of kung fu.
The more he'd mocked it before, the harder he'd praise it now.
Luke even thought ahead: if he ever made martial arts movies where fighters beat up Western opponents, Tyson would make the perfect on-screen villain.
After all, in the future he was destined for, that kind of role came naturally.
Winning over Tyson was a strategic move—and Eisen would handle the follow-up.
But for Luke, today's victory felt strangely empty.
Being invincible… was a lonely thing indeed.
"To be unbeatable… is to be unbearably lonely."