He seemed to hover an inch above the polished hardwood, coiled and ready to spring. He was heavily muscled, dark, hairy — the quintessential kick-ass karate player. Armando Ruiz. Mongo, his enemies called him, though never to his face. I wasn’t likely to spar him until at least the quarter-finals. A lot could happen between now and then, but the way things looked, Mongo was the competitor most likely to steal my shot at the trophy. I’d already defeated my first opponent; my second match was half an hour away. I had an opportunity to devote full attention to Ruiz as he stepped into the ring and exchanged bows with a sturdy, Nordic Shito-ryu player. He scored a kill in eight seconds. The match consumed so little time I had to replay it in my head to fully grasp it. Mongo had charged forward, punches flying one after the other, erasing the Viking’s powerful defense as if it had been made of smoke. Three, four, five potent impacts to the face and the Viking logged off, leaving empty floor behind.
