The second round began, and DPP knew he was in trouble.
Enton Malikin wasn't just strong, he was suffocating. Every exchange felt like he was being dragged into deep waters, and no matter what he did, he couldn't stop the Russian's relentless pace.
The bell rang, and Malikin wasted no ti. He stepped forward imdiately, feinting a jab before lowering his level and shooting for another takedown.
DPP sprawled, planting his hands and trying to dig his hips in, but Malikin had already locked onto his waist.
With a sudden burst of power, Malikin lifted DPP off the ground and slamd him onto the canvas. The entire cage shook from the impact.
The crowd roared as Malikin established top control, his massive fra pressing down, suffocating like a lead blanket.
"Malikin is an absolute monster!" one comntator shouted. "DPP had no ti to react! The Russian champion is controlling this fight!"
DPP gritted his teeth. He was no stranger to being taken down, but this was different. He wasn't dealing with just another wrestler, he was dealing with a goddamn tank.
Malikin postured up and started dropping bombs. Hamrfists, elbows, short punches, it wasn't about speed, it was about pressure. Every shot was calculated, every strike designed to break DPP down, to make him react, to force him into a mistake.
DPP tried to fra up, pushing against Malikin's chest to create space, but the Russian was already two steps ahead.
Malikin scooped DPP's legs and dragged him back down.
"DPP is trying to get up, but Malikin just won't let him!" the comntator exclaid.
DPP knew he couldn't just survive. He had to do sothing, anything, before Malikin completely drowned him.
The mont Malikin shifted to advance position, DPP exploded, a desperate scramble, twisting his hips, using his speed to slip out the side and get to his knees.
For a brief second, he was free.
And then Malikin snatched his back.
The crowd gasped.
DPP tensed, knowing exactly what was coming. Malikin locked his hooks in, flattening him out as he secured the position.
The Russian's forearm snaked under DPP's chin, slowly tightening.
"This is bad, this is REALLY bad!" one comntator shouted.
DPP tucked his chin, fighting off the choke, but Malikin wasn't rushing. He squeezed just enough to force a reaction, then adjusted, digging deeper, cutting off the air supply.
DPP clawed at Malikin's grip, thrashing, trying to peel the arm away.
Malikin flexed.
DPP's movents slowed.
Then stopped.
The referee stepped in, tapping Malikin on the shoulder before pulling his grip apart.
It was over.
DPP slumped to the canvas as Malikin let go, standing over him, arms raised in victory.
The crowd erupted.
"ENTON MALIKIN JUST CHOKED OUT DPP!"
DPP sat up slowly, shaking his head in frustration. He had been completely outclassed.
Malikin, the Russian monster, had dominated.
The tournant had its first finalist.
Losing always stung. It never felt good, but losing while feeling completely helpless? That was the worst of all.
DPP sat on the stool, breathing heavily, his body still aching from the relentless pressure Malikin had put on him.
It wasn't just that he lost, it was how he lost.
He had been manhandled. Outmuscled. Outgrappled. Overwheld.
There was no real mont in the fight where he had control, no point where he felt like he had a chance to turn things around.
The worst part? It wasn't even a lack of skill.
DPP had trained for this. He had prepared for the wrestling, the pressure, the physicality. But the mont Malikin got his hands on him, it was different.
He had never felt that kind of strength before.
When he tried to scramble, it was like moving through quicksand. Every ti he thought he had an opening, Malikin shut it down instantly. The man was a wall, a tank, a force of nature.
DPP clenched his fists.
He hated this feeling.
He could accept a loss. But he couldn't accept being powerless.
He looked across the cage and saw Malikin, standing tall, arms raised, basking in the mont. The Russian had earned it. No excuses.
But that didn't an DPP had to like it.
As the officials helped him up, he gave one last glance toward Malikin.
This wasn't over.
He wouldn't forget this feeling.
And if he ever got the chance again… he wouldn't be the sa fighter next ti.
DPP exhaled sharply, steadying himself as he walked toward Enton Malikin, extending his hand.
The Russian looked at him for a mont before clasping his grip firmly, giving him a nod of respect.
No words were exchanged. None were needed.
This wasn't about sportsmanship or forced humility, it was about acknowledging reality. Enton was the better man tonight.
DPP wasn't delusional. He knew how this worked. In their current positions, he would probably never get a rematch.
Different promotions. Different paths.
That was the nature of the fight ga.
But what he also knew, deep down, was that Russia had a very real chance of taking this entire tournant.
For the past few years, Russian fighters had been taking over the sport.
Every weight class had killers from that region, and they weren't just fighters, they were specialists. Machines built for destruction.
Malikin was no different.
If anyone was betting on the tournant, they'd have to consider Russia a serious contender for the middleweight division.
And honestly? DPP wasn't even mad about it.
He just wished it wasn't at his expense.
With that, he left the cage, head held high.
He lost. Fine.
But he'd be damned if he let that loss define him.
With Russia officially securing their place in the finals, one half of the equation was complete.
Now, the world turned its eyes to the next fight.
Ireland vs. Cuba.
Damon Cross vs. Noal Rairo.
One of them would move on. One of them would face the Russian monster in the finals.
The arena, still buzzing from the last fight, grew even more electric.
For all the fights leading up to this, this was the one people were waiting for.
The unstoppable force that was Damon Cross versus the iron-willed veteran in Noal Rairo. Enjoy exclusive chapters from My Virtual Library Empire
A new era versus a legendary na.
And within minutes, it would be ti to find out who truly belonged in the final.
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