In his mind, as he would tug or twist on a limb he would recall the military-style obstacle course and the training that went along with it. He specifically chose one that had an emphasis on ropes, because Blake was determined to obtain useful strength rather than bulkier muscles.

Each time he escaped or countered Harbinger’s grasp, he pictured the judo lessons he took. Not enough to reach a black belt, well at least a respectable one, but enough to instill the fundamentals of evading the opponent’s attacks no matter what form they took.

And each time he secured a grip himself, he felt the satisfaction of months ago when he finally closed the 280 pound-resistance ‘Captains of Crush’ heavygrip and got an official certification for doing so. It took nearly two years and dozens of attempts before he could pull it off.

When he drove Harbinger into the mat with the first satisfying bodyslam, and felt the impact coursing through the ring into his feet, Blake could swore he smell bailed hay and heavy bags of grain that he tossed around in a brief summer job at a dairy farm. It didn’t pay much but it was invigorating and it developed his muscles in ways that weight training never could.

As the match progressed, those things slowly but surely faded. The ‘training’ of his first two years in Mercury returned. The instinct he had from high school kicked in. The fundamental aptitude for bending and stretching and wrenching and hurting took control.

He used a strategy that he thought Harbinger wouldn’t expect, in that he used whatever move or hold was handiest rather than focusing on a single part. So, when a hard bodyslam might have made Harbinger wary of attacks to the back, Blake applied a tight armbar. When defending the arm became Harbinger’s priority, Blake dove at the legs and snared a heel hook. Maintaining the hold was always tricky against Harbinger but it was easier than it used to be; Blake’s physical potential was greater and he was now decisively stronger with none of the hesitation and rookie mistakes that held him back before.

There was no way to lose as far as he was concerned. Oh sure, Harbinger would slip away now and then, grab an abdominal stretch or full nelson or some such, and make Blake work like mad to get out and then stay out of the hold. On occasion there would be a sharp palm strike or a skin-ripping chop, but never the sort of strike barrage that troubled him in the battles with Slate. Harbinger’s effort only made it more rewarding when Blake got his chances. Every grimace, involuntary twitch, struggle for the ropes and brief cry of pain was a little victory. Whenever Harbinger’s reactions became more pronounced it was as if Blake smelled blood.

The longer the match went, the longer he could break down and eventually torture the so-called ‘world’s greatest’. If Harbinger decided to end the match by submitting, then Blake Grumann would become a two-time champion. If he didn’t, then it means more fun. It was Blake’s happiest day since the last time he went after the title.

Thankfully the match was taking place in Japan, where fans couldn’t quite understand why Blake seemed so happy whenever Herb Ingles was in pain. They only ever booed rule-breakers or bullies, of which Blake was neither. They’d cheer Harbinger more, but the lack of negative energy was one more reason why Blake was able to succeed. That might be why his title win came in Japan; they appreciated Blake’s ability far more than the overly judgmental American fans.

Sometimes Herb would say things to try and get in Blake’s head. ‘Freak’. ‘Psychopath’. ‘Sadistic bastard’. He swore that he’d never let Blake take ‘his’ title. But that was just another sign of weakness, and besides Blake had heard it all before. Taunts wouldn’t deter him, only superior force, and there was no ‘Deadly Herb’ to deliver that anymore.