He thought about it like this:
In a wild exchange, everyone's eyes track the obvious, head shots, big movents, flashy strikes.
But with this?
He could throw a combination upstairs, and while the opponent's guard lifted, one body shot could sneak in like a ghost.
And by the ti they realized they'd been hit, their liver would already be shutting down.
They'd fold before they understood why.
Like a phantom punch had stolen their soul.
He rubbed his jaw, the smile turning into sothing colder.
He'd seen flashes of this in his career, those monts where a fighter gets hit and their body reacts before their brain does.
But now he'd have a tool for it.
Sothing that could end fights clean, brutal, and sudden.
He flexed his fingers again, imagining it already.
One-two high, slip the third to the body, and before they even feel the sting–
Down they go.
Lights out.
And no one would be sure what happened until they watched it back in slow motion.
Damon sat back, exhaling through his nose, the grin fading into sothing sharper.
This wasn't just power.
This was surgical.
And it fit him perfectly.
He closed the system window, the rewards claid.
Now?
Now he was ready to test them.
Damon closed his eyes, exhaling slow and steady. The system's hum faded, replaced by that familiar void. He slipped into the simulation with a single thought, leaving the hotel suite behind like it wasn't even real.
When his eyes opened, he stood inside the ring.
The air was still, sharp with focus.
And in front of him stood Ismael Desayen.
Even here, even in the simulation, Desayen radiated that aura, the presence of soone who had ruled the middleweight division for years.
His pri had been sothing brutal and beautiful at the sa ti. Precision striking. Control of distance that made opponents look foolish.
Damon respected that.
Even now, even in a simulated version, Desayen was still a nightmare puzzle to solve.
Desayen stood loose, chin tucked, his stance a classic hybrid of defense and readiness. He nodded once at Damon, calm as ever, but the look in his eyes said it all.
Co on then.
This wasn't going to be easy.
And that's why Damon picked him.
He circled first, testing the range.
Desayen shifted with him, hands light but in position, eyes locked.
Damon snapped a jab to test him, Desayen batted it away like it was nothing.
A low kick ca next, checked without breaking rhythm.
Still sharp, Damon thought.
Even here, Desayen was no stepping stone.
He closed the distance with a classic combination. Jab, cross, hook. Clean chanics.
Desayen blocked high and answered with a stiff jab that caught Damon's guard.
It was like trying to walk into a maze that constantly rearranged itself.
But Damon wasn't in here to fight the old way.
He was here to test this.
Flowing into the next exchange, Damon let his hands go, jab, cross, hook—
And then he added it.
The ghost punch.
A liver shot that skipped like a ghost between the rhythm.
Perfect weight transfer. No wasted movent.
But Desayen wasn't just any fighter.
He saw sothing.
His body twitched, dropping the elbow just enough to intercept the punch before it landed flush.
It wasn't clean, Damon's fist still hamred into the side of his ribs, but it wasn't the free shot Damon expected.
Another exchange.
Damon pressed again.
He faked high, ripped the ghost punch low. This ti, Desayen partially rolled with it, absorbing less of the damage.
But his breathing hitched.
The shot still got through.
Just not the way Damon wanted.
"Timing," Damon muttered to himself, resetting his stance.
He was learning.
This was the difference between simulation sparring partners and a master striker like Desayen.
Even in his later years, he was no fool.
His reactions might have slowed, but his reads were sharp.
Damon knew he'd have to layer his setups better.
The ghost punch wasn't an instant win button, it was a weapon.
But it had to be wielded right.
And the fact that Desayen was forcing him to figure that out?
He respected it.
This was why he was here.
He exhaled, bouncing lightly on his toes.
The next exchange was going to be different.
Damon was going to set it up right.
As Damon was about to reset his stance and continue the exchange with Desayen, the simulation flickered for the first ti.
A notification blinked in his peripheral vision, sharp and clear.
[Alert: Soone is calling for you.]
The system rarely interrupted unless it mattered.
With a quick breath, Damon ended the simulation.
The ring, the sounds, the feeling of the gloves, all of it vanished in an instant.
When he opened his eyes, he wasn't in the cage anymore.
He was back in the hotel room.
Dim morning light crept through the curtains, casting a soft glow over everything. The room slled faintly of coffee and lavender, probably from whatever fancy diffuser they had set up.
Svetlana was kneeling beside the bed, gently shaking his shoulder.
"Damon," she said softly, her voice calm but with that steady edge of purpose.
His eyes focused, and he realized how deep under he'd gone.
He blinked a few tis, stretching as he pushed himself up to sit.
His body felt relaxed, but his head was still catching up.
He wiped a hand down his face.
"Hey," he said, his voice low and rough, the kind of tone that said I just woke up even if he wasn't actually asleep.
Svetlana smiled faintly.
"You still tired?" she asked.
Damon nodded once, rolling his shoulders.
"Yeah," he said through a breath.
He stretched his arms behind his head, back cracking just a little as he exhaled again.
Svetlana stood slowly, brushing her hands off on her jeans.
"I get it," she said. "But we should leave for the airport soon. You can rest on the flight ho."
There was no rush in her voice, but he knew the look. She had everything under control, as usual, but she wanted to keep it that way.
She motioned toward the bags by the door.
"Help with these?"
Damon gave a tired grin, shaking his head lightly.
"You an these?" he said, already sliding off the bed.
Before she could say anything, he stepped close and kissed her.
Soft, deliberate.
The kind of kiss that said thank you without words.
When he pulled back, his smile was still there.
"I got it," he said.
And he ant it.
The bags, the flight, whatever was coming next.
He had it.
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