Damon got out of the cab, standing in front of the community hall. The bright sunlight hit him, casting a warm light over the scene.
He stretched his arms, feeling the weight of his kit in the plastic bag slung over his shoulder.
He paid the driver, handing over the fare with a nod of thanks. The driver took the money, his eyes flicking to the plastic bag before returning to the road.
Damon turned to face the community hall, his eyes scanning the building.
He walked towards the entrance, his feet echoing off the pavent. The guards stood at the door, their eyes watchful and alert. They patted him down, their hands moving quickly and efficiently over his body.
Damon stood still, his arms raised as the guards checked him for any prohibited items. He felt a sense of calm wash over him, his focus fixed on the fight ahead.
He got to his room, the sa room he had been in before, and began to prepare for the weigh-in. He placed the plastic bag containing his kit on the table and started to change into his shorts.
He took off his pants and shirt, and then slipped on the shorts. He had noticed last ti that fighters were not wearing underwear, so he followed suit. The shorts felt lightweight and comfortable against his skin.
Damon stood in front of the mirror, checking his reflection. He looked focused, his eyes fixed on the task ahead. He took a deep breath, feeling the air fill his lungs, and then exhaled slowly.
A knock ca at the door, and Damon got up to follow the guy who had knocked.
He didn't really need to follow him, since he still rembered the direction to the weigh-in room from last ti.
But he followed anyway, his feet carrying him down the familiar hallway.
As he walked, the sound of murmured conversations and shuffling feet filled the air.
The sll of sweat and adrenaline wafted through the corridor, mingling with the scent of freshly cleaned floors.
Damon stood in front of a door, waiting for his turn to enter. He could hear the sound of voices inside, the rustling of papers, and the beeping of the scale.
Then, he heard it. "123 for Mark Handerson, he makes weight!" The voice was loud and clear, and it was followed by a small applause.
The clapping was brief, but it was enough to make Damon's heart beat just a little bit faster.
Damon took a deep breath, feeling the air fill his lungs, and walked into the room. He stepped through the doorway, his eyes scanning the space, and caught a glimpse of his opponent.
Just like the last one, Mark Handerson was short, standing at least a head shorter than Damon.
Damon's gaze lingered on his opponent for a brief mont, taking in the sight of him. Mark was stocky, with a compact build, and his eyes seed fixed intently on Damon.
He stepped onto the platform, feeling the cool surface beneath his feet.
Damon stepped onto the scale, his feet making a slight tapping sound on the tal surface. He looked out at the crowd, his eyes scanning the room with a hint of confidence.
The faces in the crowd were a blur, but he could sense their gaze upon him.
He flexed his muscles, his skinny arms and legs tensing slightly as he did so. His muscles were visible, even though he wasn't bulky, and he felt a sense of pride in his lean physique.
The man operating the scale adjusted the weights, his hands moving with precision as he did his job.
He looked up at Damon, his expression neutral, and then turned to the guy holding the mic.
"125," he said, his voice clear and loud.
The guy with the mic repeated the number, his voice booming across the room. "125 for Damon Cross, he makes weight!"
Damon stepped down from the scale, his feet making a soft thud on the floor. He turned and walked back towards the door, his eyes fixed on the exit.
As he walked, he could feel the eyes of the crowd upon him, their gaze following him as he moved. He didn't look back, keeping his focus on the door ahead.
He pushed through the door and out into the hallway, the sounds of the crowd fading behind him.
He took a deep breath, feeling the cool air fill his lungs, and began to make his way back to his room.
As he exited the hallway, Damon bumped into Mr. Steele, who was standing with his arms crossed, eyeing him up and down. "Good luck out there," Mr. Steele said, his voice firm but encouraging. "I hope you bring your best."
Mr. Steele patted Damon on the shoulder, his hand making a soft thudding sound on Damon's skin.
Damon nodded, feeling a sense of determination wash over him. He continued walking, his feet carrying him back to his room.
As he entered his room, Damon sat down on the bench, his eyes fixed on his reflection in the mirror. He took a deep breath, feeling the air fill his lungs, and then exhaled slowly.
He looked at himself, taking in the sight of his lean physique, his focused eyes, and his determined expression. "It's ti," he said to himself, his voice barely above a whisper.
The words hung in the air, a simple statent of fact. It was ti to put everything on the line, ti to give it his all, ti to show everyone what he was capable of.
Damon's gaze lingered on his reflection for a mont longer, and then he stood up, his movents swift and decisive.
He began to dress, his hands moving quickly and efficiently as he put on his gear.
Damon wrapped his hands with the gloves, the soft padding enveloping his fingers as he secured them tightly.
He then slipped on the fighting shorts, the lightweight material hugging his legs snugly.
Finally, he inserted the mouthguard, the plastic molding to his teeth as he bit down on it, ready to absorb any impact.
As he finished preparing, Damon took a mont to survey himself in the mirror. His eyes narrowed, his gaze intense, as he checked his gear.
The gloves were secure, the shorts were in place, and the mouthguard was fitted perfectly.
[QUEST ISSUED]
[QUEST: WIN THE MATCH]
[REWARD: 10 COINS]
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