The Skyfall Kick

Canelo suddenly took a few slow steps backward. Tom watched him closely, unsure what Canelo was about to do. He scratched his head—then accidentally let out a loud fart. The sound echoed for a few seconds, but no one seemed to notice… or maybe they just didn’t care.

Then Canelo burst forward, charging a few steps with explosive speed—then launched himself into the air, soaring nearly three meters high. As he rose, his left leg curled inward while his right leg shot out straight, toes pointed like a spear. His whole body angled downward at 45 degrees as he plummeted straight toward his target. It was his signature move—the Skyfall Kick. A brutal, precision strike aimed directly at Tom’s chest like it was meant to end him.

Tom threw his arms up and crossed them over his chest—just in time. Canelo’s Skyfall Kick slammed down on him like a hammer from the heavens. The moment their bodies collided, a shockwave exploded outward. Sparks flew in every direction. The ground trembled beneath them, as if the very street shook from the impact.

The Powerful High Knees

The force sent Tom sliding backward—his feet scraping along the ground until he finally stopped. Then came a sharp, clean snap. One of his arms broke right there, on the spot. The pain hit him like fire. Tom roared—raw, loud, and full of rage.

Even someone like Tom—clumsy, slow, dense, almost never sure of anything—could sense it: Canelo was a real threat. And that alone was enough to make him strike back. Gritting his teeth, he pushed through the agony, and with both arms—one already broken—he grabbed Canelo out of the air and yanked him in close.

Then, without thinking, he started running in place. High knees. One after another. Each one smashing into Canelo’s gut—hard. Thump. Thump. Thump. Canelo’s body jerked with every hit, like his guts were getting jackhammered over and over. Using the last breath in his body, Canelo coughed—hard—and blasted a thick wave of blood straight into the air. The spray burst upward, and the droplets scattered in every direction, hanging like red mist across every corner of the empty street.

His eyes flashed white and rolled back as all strength left his body. He was completely knocked out cold. He hung there—limp, heavy, and lifeless—like a discarded puppet in Tom’s arms. Tom casually flung Canelo’s body down next to one of those giant trash containers—the kind with wheels and a metal lid.

He wiped the sweat off his forehead, let out a tired sigh. Then, as if nothing had happened, he casually turned and got back to work. He still hadn’t made enough money for dinner. Life on the streets wasn’t easy, not even for such a fierce fighter like Tom.