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Novel Catalog
Chapter 139
Coach Grande’s eyes flicked between Bianca’s reluctant expression and Nash’s composed stance. “Either you kick him out,” he sneered, “or I walk.”
Skadi’s patience snapped. Rising to her full height, she pointed to the door. “Leave—now. I won’t hesitate to break your legs if you linger another second.”
The coach ignored her warning and fixed his gaze on Bianca. “Is this what you want?”
Bianca drew in a steady breath. “You may not know,” she said calmly, “but the Zabel family funded and founded the Neo Power Club.”
At the mention of her surname, Coach Grande’s scowl deepened, and he pivoted to exit. The other fighters exchanged uneasy glances but dared not object.
Nash glanced at one of the onlooking boxers. “Lend me your gloves.”
Hesitant, the boxer removed the gloves hanging around his neck and handed them over. Nash shrugged out of his coat and slipped on the gloves before stepping into an open space in the waiting room.
“Your nine consecutive victories speak to your speed and power,” Nash began, voice calm yet authoritative. “But none of that mattered when you faced Black Widow. You froze because you fear her. She has won the Phoenix Crown three times and once held the World Boxing Champion Golden Belt. To beat her, you must first conquer your own fear.”
He paused, letting his words sink in. “Next, your technique has glaring flaws. In three rounds, you threw 350 punches at her head—none landed. Seventy-two strikes to her abdomen failed to connect. You attempted seventy-eight combinations without ever landing on her arm. With this performance, you’d be eliminated in round one of any major tournament.”
Bianca and Skadi stared at him, mouths agape. How had Nash counted every blow? How had he seen through her terror?
Nash drew a measured breath and shifted into a textbook boxing stance: left arm extended protectively, left fist shoulder-high, right hand guarding his chin.
“Watch closely,” he said, edging toward a nearby silicone training dummy. “Commit this combination to memory. It will give you openings in the second half.”
He centered himself, inhaled, and unleashed a rapid sequence. His left jab snapped toward the dummy’s head, retracted for defense, followed by a feint with his right fist, and then a lightning-quick left cross. Without hesitation, he flowed into short flurries, then a longer, feint-heavy combination designed to bait and exploit an opponent’s guard. Each punch sliced the air, precise and economical.
After ten minutes, Nash removed his gloves and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow—though his calm demeanor suggested none of it had taxed him. He locked eyes with Bianca. “Memorized?”
She nodded, voice steady. “Every strike.”
“That’s impressive.” Nash smiled. “Now put them on and try.”
Bianca donned the gloves. As she squared off with Nash, Skadi pulled Hera aside, phone trembling in her hand. “McNash trained Mike Thorson,” she whispered. “Could Nash actually be the legendary Father of the King of Fighters?”