Damon watched as Demaien managed to slip away, scrambling back to his feet. It wasn't clean, but it was enough.
Niklas imdiately reset, bouncing lightly on his feet, his eyes locked on Demaien with sharp focus. There was no hesitation in him.
Damon exhaled, his mind already working through what he had just seen.
Demaien was a good wrestler, but this wasn't easy. Niklas wasn't just defending, he was dictating the exchanges.
And that ant one thing, he knew what he was doing.
Damon could see it clearly now. Niklas wasn't just decent in grappling; he was fundantally sound.
More importantly, he was composed.
That was the difference.
Demaien, for all his wrestling credentials, wasn't fighting with confidence.
He wasn't dictating anything.
Most of this fight had played out on the feet, and Demaien had done nothing with it.
Niklas had landed the better shots. He had controlled the space.
And now, Demaien was still reacting.
Damon's jaw tightened slightly. This wasn't looking good.
If this fight kept going like this, they would lose their spot in the tournant.
Demaien was playing it too safe. He wasn't throwing anything aningful, wasn't engaging, just keeping his distance, circling away. It was survival, not competition.
Niklas, on the other hand, wasn't pressing too hard either. He was staying patient, following Demaien, cutting off his movent with calculated footwork.
He wasn't reckless. He wasn't desperate. He didn't need to be. He had already secured the biggest mont of the fight, the knockdown earlier in the round.
Occasionally, Niklas threw out a jab, flicked a kick to keep Demaien thinking, but nothing major. He was comfortable letting the round play out like this.
The round ended with no further drama. The only defining mont had been Demaien getting dropped. That was what the judges would rember.
The bell rang.
Imdiately, both corners rushed into the cage. Stools were placed down, water bottles squeezed over heads, towels wiping sweat.
Niklas sat down, breathing calmly. His corner spoke in low, controlled tones, giving instructions without urgency. They knew their fighter was in control.
Across the cage, Demaien took his seat. His breathing was heavier, but not because of exhaustion, it was the weight of the mont pressing down on him.
In the Irish corner, Tommy Hughes wasn't hiding his frustration.
He hadn't moved on from Collin's loss yet, and now this fight wasn't going any better.
He paced slightly, rubbing his bald head, muttering under his breath.
Victor, on the other hand, kept his focus sharp. He crouched in front of Demaien, looking him in the eyes.
"You're waiting too much," Victor said firmly. "You're letting him control the pace."
Demaien nodded, but it wasn't confident. It was automatic, like he was just absorbing the words without truly processing them.
Damon stepped forward. His voice cut through the noise.
"You can't win by avoiding him," Damon said, his tone calm but direct. "You're reacting to everything he does, but you're not making him react to you."
Demaien blinked, eting Damon's gaze for the first ti.
Damon leaned in slightly, lowering his voice. "You can wrestle better than him. But you're not setting anything up. You keep waiting for a perfect opening that's never gonna co. You need to make one."
Tommy finally turned his attention back to the fight, stepping in with his own input. "Move yer feckin' feet, lad. Stop hangin' in no man's land. If you're gonna strike, then feckin' strike. If you're gonna wrestle, then feckin' wrestle. But do sothing."
Demaien took a deep breath, nodding again. This ti, there was more clarity in his eyes.
The ten-second warning clapper sounded.
The corners cleared out.
The stools were pulled back, water bottles tossed aside.
The referee stepped forward.
It was ti for Round 2.
Irish Comntator: "Alright, let's see what adjustnts Ncguygan's corner gave him. We heard Cross step in with so advice, let's see if it sticks."
Polish Comntator: "He needs to make sothing happen. Simple as that."
The referee motioned them back to the center.
Referee: "Ready? Ready? Fight!"
The second round began.
Niklas stepped forward with confidence, his movent fluid, his eyes sharp. He wasn't feeling any pressure.
If anything, he looked more comfortable than he did in the first round.
Demaien, on the other hand, knew he couldn't just stand there anymore.
He had spent the entire first round waiting, reacting. That had to change, though, seeing Niklas co in confident, damaged his confidence more.
But just as the thought ford in his head, Niklas struck.
A swift high kick snapped toward Demaien's head.
Instinct kicked in. Demaien jerked his head back, barely avoiding the full impact. But he wasn't completely safe.
The toes clipped his chin, and a sharp stinging pain followed. A nail must've caught him, leaving a small cut. It wasn't deep, it wasn't bleeding, but it hurt.
He exhaled sharply, resetting his stance. That was too close.
Niklas smirked. He had seen it.
The hesitation.
And now, he pressed forward again.
Niklas stepped in with another kick, this ti targeting Demaien's calf.
He had been landing those shots all fight, chopping away at Demaien's base, breaking him down piece by piece.
But this ti, he got lazy.
He didn't mask it with a jab. He didn't set it up with movent. It was a naked kick, one thrown with too much confidence, not enough caution.
And Demaien saw it.
In that split second, sothing clicked in his mind.
"Punch through your opponent."
Damon's voice from training echoed in his thoughts.
Not at them.
Through them.
Demaien didn't retreat like before. Instead, he lunged forward.
He dipped his head slightly, allowing the kick to glance off his thigh, absorbing it.
But in the sa motion, he twisted his hips, putting every ounce of his weight into an overhand right.
It landed flush.
Niklas's head snapped to the side, his whole body rocking from the impact.
His knees buckled, his balance teetering, and for the first ti in the fight, his confidence cracked.
And Demaien chased.
Niklas instinctively backed up, blinking, trying to clear the fog. But there was no ti.
Demaien's left hook slamd into his ribs, digging deep.
Niklas let out a sharp cough, his body folding slightly, his arms dropping just a bit to protect his midsection.
Demaien capitalized imdiately.
He grabbed the back of Niklas's head and yanked him forward, right into a brutal knee.
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Niklas barely got his hands up in ti, but even then, the impact sent him stumbling back, his feet fumbling over themselves.
And Demaien kept coming.
Irish Comntator: "WOAH, WOAH! DEMAIEN JUST ROCKED HIM! THIS IS IT, THIS IS HIS MONT!"
Polish Comntator: "Niklas is in trouble! He's backing up, he needs to get his footing or this fight is going to slip away from him!"
But Niklas couldn't get his footing.
Demaien was relentless, throwing wild punches, so hitting clean, others missing by inches, but it didn't matter. The sheer volu had Niklas completely on the defensive.
He tried to fire a counter left hook, but Demaien ate it and kept pressing forward.
Niklas's back foot caught the edge of the cage.
He was trapped.
Demaien's eyes locked in. He cocked his right hand back, the Irish crowd deafening, sensing sothing huge was about to happen.
Niklas had seconds to react.
He had to do sothing.
Now.
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