The Long-Awaited Sock Attack
Michael had finally lured Raymond to the exact spot.
Right next to that middle-aged man sitting on a bench, sipping hot coffee like this was just some weekend spectacle.
This is it, Michael thought.
The opening.
His heart was pounding.
For the last few minutes, he hadn’t thrown a single punch. No counterattacks. Just pure evasion—gritting his teeth, staying calm, playing the long game.
Now? The moment was here.
Without hesitation—not even a blink—he struck.
He reached out and snatched the cup of hot coffee from the man’s hand.
“What the hell?!” the man shouted. “What the fuck is that?! Why’d you take my coffee?! I’m only half done—damn it!”
Michael didn’t care.
He leaned forward, instantly, and splashed the entire cup across Raymond’s face.
FSSHHHHH!!
Steam erupted.
Raymond reeled back, completely stunned.
He hadn’t seen it coming. Not even a little.
Just a second ago, he was throwing punches with rhythm.
Now he was blind, burned, stumbling—both hands clamped over his face, eyes shut tight, trying not to scream.
And that—that—was the real opening.
Michael didn’t wait.
Not even a second.
In one swift motion, he dropped to a crouch, tore off his right shoe, ripped off his sock, and crumpled the damp cloth into a dense, stinking ball.
He gripped it tight.
Stepped forward.
And with a deep inhale, he raised his voice and shouted:
“SOCK ATTACK!!”
The Long-Awaited Concussion Punch
Michael gripped the foul object tightly in his hand.
His right arm stretched forward, body leaning in with everything he had—ready to shove the sock straight into Raymond’s mouth.
This was it.
The moment of victory.
Just one more inch.
Raymond’s face was wide open, his hands still covering his eyes from the coffee burn.
Michael moved in.
He could already feel it—this was the end.
But then—
Raymond slowly lowered both hands.
And smiled.
Not just a smirk.
A full, twisted, screaming smile—like something that didn’t belong on a human face.
Michael’s breath caught in his chest.
This isn’t good.
He had never seen Raymond make an expression before. Never.
For the longest time, Michael thought this man was just a cursed, walking mannequin—driven by instinct, destruction, and nothing else.
But now?
Now he saw it.
Raymond had intelligence.
His eyes were still covered in that swirling black fog—but behind it?
There was someone home.
Oh shit, Michael thought.
He’s been deceived.
He wasn’t the only one waiting for an opening.
They had traded over a thousand blows.
Dodged each other’s moves for what felt like hours.
All this time, Michael thought he was the only one calculating.
But Raymond had been waiting too.
Waiting for this.
The moment Michael fully committed.
Now it was too late to pull back.
Michael’s momentum carried him forward.
And Raymond?
He moved fast.
With a sudden, violent motion, Raymond’s right hand slapped the sock clean out of Michael’s hand—sending it spiraling up into the air like a wet, flying rag.
Before Michael could react, Raymond’s left arm swung forward.
Fist clenched.
Energy crackling.
His voice ripped through the air like a cannon blast:
“CONCUSSION PUNCH!!”
And then—
BOOM.
Raymond’s fist drove straight into Michael’s gut at point-blank range.
Zero distance.
Zero mercy.
One Second of Slow-Motion Framing
The punch landed.
And for that one second, the entire world dropped into slow motion.
Frame by frame.
Every movement. Every twitch. Every sound.
Michael could see everything—
Brian and Jason standing up on the second floor, stunned.
Even Jason’s tongue, still hanging out like a panting dog.
Down on the first floor, the man whose coffee had been stolen was yelling. His mouth moved violently, arms flailing. But Michael couldn’t hear a word. The world was muffled now.
Somewhere near the bathroom, a guy who had just finished squatting was using toilet paper to wipe himself clean. He was pulling up his pants.
And high in the air—
the foul sock Michael had lost just a moment ago was still spinning.
And it landed perfectly.
Right into the mouth of the cheering boy.
The kid’s mouth had been wide open, mid-shout—
“YEAHHH LET’S—MMMPHH!!”
The sock flew in.
His legs buckled instantly.
He collapsed to his knees and dropped flat to the floor, completely unconscious.
Out cold.
Meanwhile, Michael’s body was screaming.
The shockwave from Raymond’s Concussion Punch had blasted through every organ—his stomach, intestines, lungs, liver, heart, kidneys.
Every piece of him was vibrating.
His limbs went numb.
His chest felt like it was seizing.
His heart was pounding so fast, he thought he was having a heart attack.
His brain felt like it had been tossed into a concrete mixer—spinning, tumbling, losing control.
But even through all of that—
he endured.
His instincts had taken over.
In just 0.1 seconds, his body had pulled every ounce of energy into his core.
His abdominal muscles hardened—not just like stone, but like steel.
And because of that—
BOOM.
Raymond’s fist bounced back.
The force rebounded, throwing Raymond two full meters backward.
He slid across the ground like a skateboard, arms flailing for balance, boots screeching against the tile.
Michael stood still.
His eyes wide.
Alive.
Sharp.
But something had changed.
Crack—CHSSHHH!!
Both lenses of his golden-rimmed glasses suddenly shattered from the internal shockwave.
Glass shards dropped down his cheeks and collarbone like crystal rain.
He didn’t flinch.
Didn’t blink.
His eyes stared straight ahead, locked on Raymond like a predator who had just found blood in the snow.
This wasn’t over.
Round three was about to begin.
All Out Madness
They didn’t say a word.
No taunts. No warnings.
Just fists.
Michael and Raymond launched themselves forward, crashing into each other with violent precision. Punches, kicks, slams—everything they had was thrown into the fray.
No defense.
No distance.
Just raw offense on loop.
Within the first minute, they had already exchanged well over a hundred blows.
The sound of flesh colliding with flesh echoed across the ruined mall like war drums.
Up on the second floor, a few stunned spectators still remained.
Someone gasped, “Oh man… this is insane. These two are going all-out crazy. Like madmen.”
Another guy muttered, “I’m actually glad I saw this in person. Even if I die from the shockwaves—it’s worth it.”
Ironically, the friend standing next to him had already died.
The guy hadn’t noticed.
Jason stood silently by the railing, tongue now stretching slightly longer than before.
Still panting. Still completely expressionless.
If anything, he looked… slightly bored.
Brian, not far from him, was the opposite.
Golden light flickered nonstop from his eyes—Golden Eye fully activated.
He was focused, dialed in, running calculations in real time.
Minute two passed.
Another hundred-something exchanges.
And then Brian’s face changed.
His mouth opened slightly.
Expression tightened.
A slow, uneasy realization crept in.
“Oh… Captain Lam doesn’t seem to be winning.”
He paused.
Swallowed.
“Oh no. He’s actually losing.”
And then it happened.
Right in the center of the warzone—
Raymond swept low.
A brutal low kick sweep, clean and fast.
Michael’s footing shattered.
His entire body lifted into the air.
Arms out. Legs wide.
His balance gone.
Then—
BAM!!
He crashed chest-first, limbs wide open, into the hard mall floor—like a body dropped from the sky with no control, no dignity, no mercy.
The tiles beneath him cracked on impact.
His arms and legs slapped down like dead weight.
The breath was knocked clean out of his lungs.
For a split second, the entire mall seemed to pause.
Sock Attack: Once More
Michael had crashed hard, but the damage wasn’t nearly as bad as it looked.
His body was built different—his starting stats weren’t something normal people could even imagine.
He pressed both palms to the floor, getting ready to rise.
And then—
he felt his foot being pulled.
He turned his head, confused.
Raymond was right next to him, crouching low, moving quickly—almost frantically.
There was no calm now. He was in a hurry.
He yanked off Michael’s last remaining shoe, then immediately grabbed hold of the final sock—the same sock Michael had once used as a weapon—and peeled it off with urgency, like he knew he had only seconds to act.
Michael’s eyes widened.
“What the fuck are you doing to my sock?!”
Raymond didn’t answer.
He just gave Michael a look.
A twisted, wide-eyed grin.
Sharp. Cunning.
Almost like he was enjoying this.
He rolled the filthy sock tightly in one hand, balling it up with fast, terrifying intent.
Michael saw the truth unfolding.
“You wouldn’t,” he muttered.
Then he moved.
With everything he had, he rolled onto his back, flipping from prone to defensive—trying to face Raymond head-on.
But it was too late.
Raymond was already there.
He lunged forward and jammed the sock directly into Michael’s mouth.
The taste hit instantly.
It was a blend of nightmares:
Rotting mildew. Sour sweat. Expired cheese. Melted rubber.
The kind of stench that didn’t just attack the senses—it settled inside the soul.
Michael’s eyes bulged.
This is worse than shit, he thought.
The foul textures rolled and twisted across his tongue, coating the inside of his mouth like a fermented disease.
He had seconds. Maybe less.
He reached up, trying to push Raymond away—
But Raymond drove his elbow into Michael’s jawline, pinning it shut.
Michael couldn’t even open his mouth to spit.
Then Raymond’s entire body pressed down over him, full weight pressing into Michael’s face, like a man determined to end this fight by pure humiliation.
Consciousness was fading.
Michael could feel the world closing in, darkness tightening like a noose.
But just before the lights went out—
he pushed.
Every muscle in his body screamed.
He exploded upward, using his arms, core, legs—everything.
And to Raymond’s shock—
Michael lifted him.
Not just partway—his entire body came off the ground, suspended in air for a heartbeat.
The pressure on his jaw broke.
Michael’s mouth began to open.
And the sock?
It was almost out.
Right After the Sock
The sock was almost out.
Michael had it right at the edge of his mouth. His tongue had worked it forward, millimeter by millimeter.
Hope was real. He could taste freedom—literally.
But then—
Raymond struck again.
With his free hand, he shoved the sock right back in, sealing Michael’s mouth like slamming a prison door.
Then his palm came down over it—a full hand over Michael’s lips, locking everything down.
Michael’s eyes opened wide.
He tried to say something—anything—but nothing came out.
Just a muffled groan.
His eyes fluttered.
His limbs twitched.
And then…
his eyelids dropped.
Slow. Heavy.
Like curtains falling on a broken stage.
Michael—gone.
His body went soft. Limbs limp.
His once-tense frame melted into the floor.
Raymond let out a long breath.
Then he rolled off him.
The crowd had already erupted.
Screams, laughs, shock, disbelief.
“Captain Lam lost!!”
“No way—he lost! For real?!”
“That was Captain Lam! Bro—he just ate a sock!!”
People were shouting over each other, some holding back tears of laughter, others just stunned.
At least a dozen people had filmed the whole fight.
Clips were already on YouTube, already spreading like wildfire.
A legend had fallen.
And everyone saw it.
Raymond knelt beside Michael’s body.
Back straight. Chin raised. Eyes closed.
His chest rose and fell, deep and deliberate.
His breathing was loud—raw—earned.
It had taken everything.
This wasn’t a cocky victory.
It wasn’t even joyful.
But it was real.
He was finally the one still standing.
Or kneeling.
And for that one brief moment, he let himself feel it:
a forgotten kind of peace.
But it didn’t last.
Not even a full minute had passed—
when Raymond heard it.
THUD.
A loud, heavy impact just meters in front of him.
Someone had jumped down from the second floor.
The figure straightened slowly.
A white button-up shirt hung half-open.
Black jeans.
Hair like a hurricane—wild, chaotic—like a black Super Saiyan in the real world.
In his hand:
a solid steel staff.
It was Jason.
He stood there without a word.
Then, calmly—almost softly—he said:
“Now it’s my turn.”