They said no one hit him—the man landed 5 blows before he realized the fight had started.

A blow that ended more fights in the first second than any other technique in the arena's history. Markus wasn't there, that's the only way to describe it. In one microsecond, he was in striking range, and the next, he shifted his entire body about 15 meters to the left, and Gormat's devastating punch sliced through empty air where the man's head had been. But Markus was already moving, and this is where my mind started having trouble processing the sequence. His right hand shot forward, not a wild swing, but a precise, compact strike that snapped Gormat's head back. One. Before Gormat could register being hit, the impossible happened. Markus's left hand rose in an ascending arc that connected under Gormat's main jaw. Two. Then Markus's right hand again, hooking in from the side, striking the ridge of Gormat's temple. Three. Left hand straight forward, crushing Gormat's breathing spiracles. Four. Right hand again, this time coming down at an angle that struck Gormat's secondary eye cluster. Five. Five blows. Five distinct, devastating blows. All landed before Gormat's first punch completed its arc to the arena floor. The entire sequence took perhaps one point three seconds. The arena fell silent. Not a silence of anticipation, but the stunned silence of beings trying to reconcile what their sensory organs were reporting with what their brains stubbornly insisted was possible. Gormat staggered back. All four arms rose in a confused defensive posture. His head was ringing. By the way his antennae were trembling, I could tell he had been struck five times in the opening exchange. This had never happened before. Did you? The voice came out as a squeak. Did you record that? Every sensor locked. I said, my own voice calm, even as my biochemistry flooded with markers of disorientation.