Red was new to this area and his pockets were currently empty. It spent most of his money on his travels. Why was he traveling he still didn't quite know he was looking for something that thing. Yet not knowing what it is or what it was that he was seeking he seemed to just wander and travel.

Red had heard about the arena. Which added a smile on his face, there was nothing like a good fight to wake up the soul. And a not bad way to make money. Seems like a good way to start out his adventure in this new place why not give it a go. It's not like he had anything better to do.

Once he had found the place he filled out all the forms talk to the people he had talked to. Once he got all signed up they gave him a date and time for a fight. Telling him he'll find out who his opponent is if he was brave enough to show up.

It was about a week later, Red strolled back into the arena.

They took him back to the areas where the letter gets prepared for him in a room all alone as they didn't want to scare the newcomers said.

Red was a man of action has spent years training in combat. He has been in different martial arts since he had been six years old. And slowly graduated to streetfighting as he got older as the rules of organized martial arts tournaments got boring and old. They didn't feel that the thrill anymore.

He was about 5'9 his brownish hair was short long enough that no one would get a fistful of his hair as a man was not putting enough work into it as he had enough to deal with his beard. His beard was a brownish red that seemed to become redder in the sunlight. He had a pretty decent long beard that was about 6 inches or so well-maintained. His eyes were dark green little sparks of brown hidden within them. Red had spent his whole life doing extreme physical activity, fighting, underground martial arts tournaments, extreme marathons, triathlons, all types of extreme physical competitions. He trained with martial arts experts underground fighting experts and military all over the world. He was slightly addicted to combat. His body was built like an athlete if he painted himself white and stood on a pedestal and posed many would've thought he was carved out of marble if he could stay still enough. He weighed probably about 165 lbs.

As he sat there he began wrapping his hands in the traditional Muay Thai fashion images.app.goo.gl/7zQc837FCk9bEx9PA. Swapping his pants to lose the more loose MMA style of red shorts. Which looked awkward with his black flatbottom steel-toed boots. Red learned years ago that people like to try to step on your toes and smash your feet and he decided from then on he was wearing boots.

They called his name and told him he was next. Slowly making his way out through the entrance door on to the sand as he made his way into the middle of the arena. It reminded him of the arenas of old ancient Rome.

He began to look around to see where his opponent may come from.

Red would be greeted with an ambient murmur from the spectators - a crowd standing right up against the 4-sided, rugged built ring made of jute rope and thick wooden posts driven deep into the sand. Hungry eyes started at him with curiosity and interest, eager for the evening's show, excited blurbs and heated opinions were exchanged, and if he listened closely, he might've caught his name being spoken - or were those just remarks on the color of his shorts? "Fighter in red - Red!" In reality, some of the people gathered had come from across the neighboring area to see him fight live; his career, not only as a sportsman, but as a fighter, attracted many admirers of the brutal art.

As he stood though, waiting for his opponent, their cheering only grew, mixing in laughs and grins as attention now slowly gathered around a figure standing in the front rows. Dusty tuxedo draped over his shoulders, white turned sun-eaten gray by travel, the man lounged with a half-empty plastic cup of water, squinting at the dimming sky and fiddling with the waist of his baggy cargo pants. Lowering his head, he slowly swept across a decisive, confident gaze, pausing with his eyes set at the ring; as he did so, a bright, reflective gleam ran across his forehead, bringing attention to a strip of steel fixed over it with a padded headband, the letters P.R.I.S. stamped into the surface.

"Get your ass out there Pris!"

Beaming a smile, the other combatant of the evening squatted down, setting his drink on the ground, and finally headed into the ring, ducking through the ropes and then tossing his upper garment over one of the posts with a showboating flourish. The rest of his wear was rather practical: other than the loose cargo pants, he had sleek boxing shoes on and a tank top over the torso. His hands were bound in a similar fashion, albeit, with a roll's worth of ductape beaten into a flat pad covering the knuckles.

The organizers of the event made good effort in finding Red a match: same height, just a couple pounds up in weight, and his name would've soon become a mainstay among kickboxing legends, if not his turn for no-holds barred brawling.

Hopping from foot to foot, he danced his way to one of the corners, still facing Red. Lifting an arm to point at him, only to say nothing, and instead, give a cocky nod, smiling. At this point, all they were waiting for was for the referee to officially start the fight - and the hosts of the gladiatorial event had no business in keeping their patrons waiting.

The world around him had faded out as it always had when he was ready for a fight the fight zone was the only thing that mattered to him all of his senses concentrated on it.

As soon as his opponent lifted the rope like a spider the vibration the sound of his movements. His brain began to record and he closed his eyes and slowly backing into his corner. Listening to how he moved his telling him a lot about how he moved his body how his weight was supported. He began recording those things in his mind like he always did. As he backed into his corner he did his pre-fight ritual which will that he had done every match since his first fight.

Red takes both of his hands to chest and turning left hand down flat and his right hand upwards very much look like a Buddhist palm looking stands. The world did not exist for that moment his body was perfectly still except for his breath. He stood extremely flat-footed his weight perfectly even. 10 seconds went by exactly as he controlled his breathing and his heart slowly began to slow down. He slowly opened his eyes not at all looking into his opponent looking directly into his opponent's chest.

If there were some of his fans about, for people that looked up the fighter on YouTube and the Internet. They all knew he always took that stance. No matter what he did after that was something that he always did. All of them knew that once he stepped into the ring he turned into the beast. Many that knew him were waiting to see what stance he took since he was known for picking a particular style or mixing styles for a fight. Those that have followed him for a long time knew that his stance may be misleading to his attack plan. Designed to mentally mess with the fighter. A good martial artist knew what the that a stance and what style of martial arts was most likely used based on the stance. Red was known for mixing that up and using that mental understanding of fighting To his advantage. One of his most notable famous fight underground MMA fights was when his stance was a traditional boxer yet he fought drunken boxing style mixed with Tiger style.

His right foot slowly as his body began to transform into his stance. Without any waste of movement slowly brought his hands up into the shape of an L his elbows are barely even with his jawline. His tent chin tucked in his right leg in front slightly bent and a third of his weight up toward the front pad of his foot. His back-heel did not touch the sand is most of the weight on the ball of his foot even in the steel-toed boots.

The announcer must've been talking saying something in the middle of the ring. Red heard none of it he only heard the breathing of his opponent every sound was completely blocked out to him he was hyper-focused on the fight except for the ones coming from inside the ring. The ring itself became a living breathing world to him and it was the only world that existed while he is in a fight.

Red watched the man's hands go down slowly begin to back away which was the international sign to get it on. He naturally moved up toward the center of the ring reaching out with his front right hand once they got close enough that they can touch gloves as a classic fighters gesture to a good fight.

But the man took back his jester their fist would pump Red would take a half a step back. His eyes still never leaving the man's chest. Every step every movement that he took seem to have no energy or physical movement wasted. Like most fighters in that particular stance and knowing how to use her body was a little bit of sway in his body listening and tighten his muscles so he wasn't over rigid keeping them loose and ready for the fight.

Red steadied himself for the fight, keenly observing, spreading control through his body and cutting away all that failed to matter.

Meanwhile, his opponent still seemed out of it, steering his body around in the ring's corner and swiveling his head side to side from one person in the crowd to another. The referee came in, and Pris responded with an exhilarated fist pump, jogging his way over to the center. Announcements were made, stoppage conditions were once again repeated, and with an angry air chop from the pudgy mexican referee (a good half foot taller than them both, retired greco-roman and BJJ amateur and now part-time taxi driver), the fight was on - yet still there seemed to be zero adjustment on his part. Was he really, really that confident?

An outwards demeanor often betrays the truth: however much it seemed that Pris was more invested in feeling himself than bracing for combat, when once asked in a post-fight interview - what he remembered of the moments right before the match, what he reply was: "Hey, no idea. It was all a haze, my head was already busy. I don't like standing still when there's action up ahead - my body gets all jittery, it gets tense if i don't move. When there's a man standing across ready to do your shit in, your body knows it, your mind knows it. It fires off into hyperdrive, everything does, all the past matches you've had come up, all that muscle memory, and it begs you to start moving, do something, turn the anticipation into excitement, you know - reverse it with confidence. So i dance around, do some funny moves, all on autopilot, while my brain is churning - absolutely - through everything i know. Yeah. That's how it is for me."

Southpaw stance, traditional Thai guard. Steel toe boots. A photo-flash mental image of Red somewhere in the back of his mind and full focus on sensing motion, the buzz of his peripheral vision bloating far beyond its usual presence.

In the span of time between moving out his corner and the referee siccing them at eachother, Pris already found himself in a stance: left foot forwards, his right a foot and a half behind - a wide base with a shallow crouch in both legs. Presenting his side to the opponent with his lead foot's toes pointing diagonally, rather than straight ahead, he took something of a long-range boxing stance, with a guard to match: left arm halfway extended, constantly bouncing between cheekbone and chest level with the threat of high and low jabs, and right hand held right in front of the chin, palm outwards. When Red seemed to offer him a sportsmanlike fistbump, his own lead hand eagerly swimmed in to respond, habit bordering on instinct - but then Red suddenly pulled out of it.

The average reaction time to visual stimulus is 0.25 seconds (according to the internet). 0.4 seconds had passed from the moment Red initiated his backstep. Pris squinted at him, a fiery gleam in his narrowed eyes probing in with the question: "You chicken or something!?"

0.5 - half a second had passed, and by that time, Pris responded with his body, mirroring the cheeky retreat.

His right foot shot back on its own; the lead left twisted against the ground, flinging the rest of his body backward, moving him a foot-and-a-half backwards - the width of his stance. Tip - Pap!, and his right foot landed, now its turn to bear his full weight and leave the lead leg light. His stance widened even further as he performed the backstep, and to restore its neutral state, Pris pulled his lead leg in - however, just before it should land, he jolted and transitioned into a sidestep: half a foot to his left with the lead, shift his weight onto it and pull in the rear leg in while doing a sharp, 30 degree pivot counterclockwise.

He knew the southpaw versus orthodox matchup well, and his first move in the fight was to begin circling to the outside, already establishing the threat from a distance.

Red moving away; Pris doing the same - their actions in sync put both outside of striking distance, be it kick or punch, and Pris wouldn't be gingerly to re-establish it. His narrow, sideways stance forced tricky footwork for sideways movement - quid pro quo, he gained in bouncy, fast and sudden frontal movement, allowing to govern range with impunity. One step or two, so long as Red remained passive, he'd keep circling and steadily advance into the outer fringe of his own front kick reach; his left hand still positioned in front, still bobbing up and down to unnerve and capture attention, Pris used an eyeball estimate of the inches between his hand and the opponent's body as a measuring gauge, achieving a remarkable degree of accuracy this way. Judging that if they were of the same height, they'd have almost identical reach, Pris concluded that this was where Redbeard's killzone started as well.

There's many questions one ponders when trying to break down a formidable opponent; find their weakspots, exploit their habits, elude their strengths. One among them that stuck in Pris' mind from the beginning of the fight was whether Red was as reserved and patient as he seemed - or if the promise of violence unleashed in him a trigger-happy maniac instead. One way to check was the good old in-out: having nothing to do with mechanized fruits, sex, or violence, all the technique entailed was stepping into range with your lead foot and then slipping back out immediately, keeping the rear leg right where it was. Foot feints, and with Pris' stance, they were a natural choice.

Red mind head measured is opponents body based on the length of his arm during the fist bump. Now he knew the length of his arm, the spacing between his ribs, and every other part of his body that he needed for the mathematical equation that his brain quickly ran. Having a complete measurement of the man's body in his mind. His mind began to draw lines on every one of the weak points on the human body and each one of the Pressure points that a martial artist would want to remember where they are during the fight.

There was no reaction on Red face as his opponent moved back and forth and stepped close enough for him to hit him and then step back out. There was literally no response to his body movements whatsoever as if he actually didn't register the attempt. If his opponent would be paying attention carefully he would notice that Red's eyes seem absolutely deadpan no motion, no response his face in his body equally seem the same for a man standing in combat. It seemed as if no adrenaline was running through his body whatsoever. His breathing was almost at a perfect resting state as if he was sitting down relaxing or as if he was sleepwalking.

Red slowly begin to draw a line with his lead foot place foot back in the middle of a line that he drew on the sand. as a way of saying without words from this point on this is where the fight will start here on this spot. If his opponent went right or left he would move keeping his body on that centerline basically putting him almost in control the center of the ring. His eyes never left his opponents chest.

When he drew a line with his foot. Loudly towards the front of the crowd, a fan screams something out loud. The voice for some reason seemed to resonate over some of the others maybe was because of the intensity of the words or just how spontaneous they came out of that person's lungs the amount of force and intent. " OH SHIT, He doing it, Holy Shit!". The fans seem to be exploding with excitement.