vs sanya

Sanya closed his eyes for a second, as if in pain.
Which, come on. That was just stupid.
I dropped the shield, whipped toward him, and kicked him in the balls.
I was fast and strong. But Sanya had been fighting for his life against various bad guys for a while now and wasn’t going to be taken down by a sucker punch. He managed to move his hips at the last second, taking some of the impact out of the kick. So instead of dropping him to the ground, the blow knocked him back and staggered him, but he kept his feet.
I gave Sanya no time to recover. I followed up, inside the reach of Esperacchius, getting my left forearm across his right, driving his arm back and up and not letting it come back down. He was big and strong. I was bigger, stronger. I crowded him against a wall, drove my knee up into his belly, once, twice, hard enough to break boards.
Then the Russian’s head snapped forward into my face. There was a burst of static pain in the general area of my head, and then I was on my way back across the alley. My shoulders hit the wall, hard. There was a crackling noise, a flash of heat in my shoulder—and then I could move my right arm readily again.
Sanya had driven a fist like a sledgehammer twice into my belly by the time I caught his blow with my right forearm before a third could land. I stomped down as hard as I could on one of his feet, with mixed results—the Russian had worn steel-toed work boots. He staggered a little, then threw a knee at my groin. I blocked it with one thigh, the one I’d hurt earlier, and the world narrowed to a tunnel for a second before I twisted my head to one side, found his ear, and bit down as hard as I could.
Sanya screamed and his weight shifted back.
I used that change of weight, set my legs, and drove him across the alleyway with the full power of my body and the strength of the Winter Knight. He hit the wall with a vicious impact. I felt it drive the air from his lungs, and I let out a shout of triumph as he bounced off, stunned for maybe all of a second.
I hit him, hard, three times in that second, driving my fist into the side of his neck, into the base of his jaw under the ear, and into his temple, wham, wham, wham.
The Sword fell out of his hand.
The Russian toppled. He hit the ground stunned, making gagging sounds.
“Self-righteous loudmouth,” I snarled down at him. “This is no concern of yours.”
The hate was calling me. I had no time for further distractions, as satisfying as they might have been.

Battle Ground Chapter 23, Page 210-211