The underground training room smelled of sour sweat and scorched rubber.
Dave wiped the sweat from his face, drove through his legs, twisted his waist, and threw a right hook straight at Bruce's face.
Bruce stood his ground without moving his feet. He merely raised his left forearm and nudged it outward to block.
Flesh collided with a dull thud. Dave felt as if he had punched a steel plate, and the recoil left his entire right arm aching and numb.
"Your power's scattered," Bruce said, his voice steady and level.
"Your waist isn't driving your arm. That punch is nothing but brute force. Against anyone who knows even a little about redirecting force, your wrist will break first."
Dave shook out his hand, gritted his teeth, and switched to a left jab.
Bruce turned sideways, placed his palm against Dave's forearm, and swept it aside with the motion. Dave lost his balance and stumbled two steps forward.
"You're targeting all the wrong places." Bruce circled behind him, pressed one hand against the back of his neck, and pushed down.
"Aim for the chin, the lower edge of the ribs, the side of the knee. You keep targeting the chest muscles and forehead. Are you trying to give your enemy a massage?"
Dave grimaced in pain, quickly straightened up, and reset his guard.
"My turn to attack."
Before the words had faded, Bruce had already closed in.
There were no flashy moves, only stripped-down straight punches and low kicks.
Dave crossed his arms over his head.
Bruce's fist landed on his forearm. The blow wasn't particularly heavy, but it carried a powerful penetrating force that made his bones ache.
"Defense doesn't mean being a punching bag. You've blocked your entire field of vision. How are you supposed to see my