Ascendants of Ancients Sovereign (Worlds of the Crystal Moon, Book 1) Read Free Page A

came to enter the cage, but Sam’s stomach had other ideas. He stepped into the hallway outside the locker room, grabbed the nearest trash can and vomited.
    Disgusted by his weakness, Sam used the wall to push himself up. He wiped off his mouth and then leaned against Jerome’s shoulder.
    The trainer pushed back. “Man up, yo! You got this, dawg. Use that genius head of yours, and get it out of the clouds. Focus! What the hell’s wrong with you?”
    Sam knew Jerome was right. It was time to own the situation and think things through. He needed to take charge of his body and control his emotions.
    As they made their way to the cage, Sam was sure his puddle of puke would become the cover story for the sports writers, no matter if he won or lost. Gaining further composure, he continued to walk down the corridor into the arena, enjoying the idea of the press twisting his loss of control into a global laugh.
    When the cage door closed, Sam stared at his Brazilian opponent and nodded. He felt nothing, neither fear nor excitement. He stood still, evaluating the weak points on the man’s body, systematically calculating how he was going to take advantage of each area to attain victory. It was as if a switch had turned on inside his mind. He knew his body was prepared from his perfect 12–0 amateur record. With confidence in this fact, the rest of the sport was mental—the easiest and yet the hardest part of the sport for Sam. The good doctor was ready to go to war.
    The referee stood at the center of the cage and pumped his fist. “Let’s get it on!” he shouted.
    The two men met at the center of the octagon. They touched gloves and circled one another to size each other up. The Brazilian threw a few jabs that Sam brushed off with no real damage before countering with a powerful, slapping kick to the Brazilian’s right, inner thigh. The loud smack energized the crowd.
    Again the Brazilian attacked, this time lunging forward with his knee, only to pull back and strike with a well-placed, right fist. Sam arched his back in an effort to soften the impact to his face, but his reaction was too slow. He stumbled backward and fell against the chain links of the cage.
    The Brazilian followed, aggressively attacking and searching for the next opening. Knees, punches and elbows rained down, but somehow, Sam managed to push the Brazilian away to create the distance he needed to regain his composure.
    Sam shook out the cobwebs. Damn, this guy is good! he thought.
    The two men moved in, locked up, and grabbed hold of each other’s necks in a Muay Thai clinch. The Brazilian tightened his grasp, pulled Sam close, and now the doctor’s stomach and ribs found a new meaning for the word pain. His body screamed from the lightning-fast impact of the crushing knees, and before he knew it, another series of alternating knees followed, one finding the bridge of his nose.
    Dazed, everything seemed like one big blur. Punches were now coming from all angles. Sam could feel the control of his muscles fading, but he had been trained to fight back. With a last effort lunge, he swung and somehow managed to find the chin of the Brazilian.
    Hurting, both men backed off to regroup. Nearly 10 seconds went by before they re-engaged, an eternity for this type of sport.
    Again, the Brazilian grabbed Sam’s head. He scoffed in a heavy accent, “You’re not ready for this. Go home, and leave the fighting to real men. I don’t wish to hurt a child.”
    The Brazilian’s insult hit deep. It opened a floodgate and awakened the dormant rage inside the doctor. For Sam, everything in the arena melted away as the fight continued. It was as if his foe had begun to fight in slow motion.
    Once again, the Brazilian taunted, “I said go home, Amateur. You don’t have what it takes, boy.”
    At that, Sam pulled back, surrendered to the anger rising from the center of his being and allowed his inner junkie to be fed. He struck the Brazilian with a solid, left hook,