Deuce Baffer exited the cage after the official announcents, leaving the two fighters in their corners.
The cara cut imdiately to the comntary desk.
"Well, here we go," the lead comntator said as the energy in the arena climbed. "It's Damon Cross versus Cellan Gustalam for the middleweight championship. What are your thoughts on this one?"
The second comntator leaned in, animated.
"From the build-up, I'm actually optimistic," he said. "Now, I don't expect Cellan to just walk Damon down and bully him. But looking at his camp footage, he ca prepared. He didn't miss weight this ti. If we get the sa Cellan that almost dethroned Ismael Desayen before, I think we're in for a real fight."
The third comntator, a little more skeptical, chuckled before weighing in.
"I want to disagree with you, but... I get it," he said. "These two fought early in Damon's career. Cellan ca in heavy, out of shape, and honestly, he didn't look like he belonged that night."
He paused, glancing toward the cage as the two fighters bounced lightly in their corners.
"Now, Cellan is in better condition. He's leaner. He's motivated. I expect a stronger version of him, no doubt about that. But Damon—" he shook his head slightly, "—Damon's not just the guy from back then. He's a champion now. He's earned it. Two defenses in. I think Cellan's about to be the third."
The lead comntator nodded, smiling slightly.
"I just don't see a world where Cellan troubles Damon the way people are hoping," he added. "Damon's composure, his grappling, his striking... he's complete."
A small laugh broke from the second comntator.
"Well," he said, joking, "I do see one world where Damon's troubled."
The third comntator raised an eyebrow. "Oh yeah?"
He grinned.
"Yeah. By Shane."
The table erupted into easy laughter.
The lead comntator chid in quickly.
"Haha, yeah, well... Damon's been pretty clear he's not interested in fighting Shane Brickland. Not now. Not ever."
They kept talking lightly as the referee checked both fighters one final ti, the air in the arena thick with anticipation.
Damon bounced on his feet, eyes locked, calm and ready.
Cellan shadowboxed loosely, breathing deep, trying to keep his nerves under control.
Damon bounced lightly on the balls of his feet, feeling the familiar pulse of energy through the soles of his shoes.
His fight shorts were a sharp green trimd with dominant gold, matching the gleam of his custom gold gloves.
A full beard now rested along his jawline, thick and clean, adding more weight to his face—more presence. His hair was trimd neatly, faded on the sides, longer on top and pushed back clean.
No tattoos yet.
Though lately, the idea crossed his mind more often.
Across the cage, Cellan Gustalam stood ready.
Damon noticed the difference imdiately.
Cellan looked better this ti. Leaner, sharper around the edges. No heavy gut, no sluggishness in his eyes. His stance was clean, his breathing controlled.
It was an improvent.
But it wouldn't change the result.
Damon knew it deep down.
He had grown even more since their first fight—and the gap was wider now, not smaller.
The referee checked both corners, then stepped back.
The bell rang.
They both moved forward, cautious but confident.
At the center of the cage, they touched gloves—quick, respectful—and imdiately pulled into their stances.
Damon settled low, lead hand floating near chin level, eyes narrowed but calm.
Cellan bounced, weight shifting between his feet, guard tight.
The crowd roared around them, but inside the cage, it was already quiet—just footwork, breathing, and focus.
Another defense started here.
And Damon intended to end it the sa way he always did—definitively.
Damon started the exchange right away.
He dropped into a faint level change, selling the threat of a takedown with a smooth dip of his shoulders. Cellan reacted as expected, lowering his stance to prepare for the shot.
Damon imdiately punished him, stepping in with a violent low kick that smashed into Cellan's lead thigh.
The impact snapped sharply through the arena, forcing Cellan to stumble half a step sideways.
Damon stayed loose, bouncing on the balls of his feet. His eyes never left Cellan, reading the small adjustnts, the tension in the man's shoulders.
Cellan circled out, resetting quickly, throwing a double jab to keep Damon honest.
Damon parried the first jab with his lead hand, slipping his head just enough to the outside to make the second jab miss.
The difference between them was clear already. Damon's movents were crisp, efficient, refined.
Cellan's technique was better than before—he was sharp, focused—but every action carried an ounce more desperation.
Damon stayed patient, keeping Cellan working. He stepped in with a fast, tight combination, a jab upstairs, followed by a heavy right hook to the ribs.
Cellan blocked the jab but ate the body shot clean, wincing slightly before firing back with a straight right hand.
Damon saw it coming and weaved under it, stepping to the outside, cutting a clean angle before resetting in front of him.
Cellan didn't back down. He pushed forward, throwing volu. His jab worked overti, flicking out two, three, four tis in quick succession.
He threw a few low kicks, mixing in a heavy body shot when Damon stepped too close. None of it landed cleanly, but it kept Damon moving, kept the rhythm from feeling too one-sided.
The champion adjusted his tempo, showing another level.
Damon shot a feint at the body again and ca up high with a sharp lead hook that rattled Cellan's guard.
Before Cellan could react, Damon shifted his hips and delivered a crushing low kick that spun Cellan slightly. Damon didn't give him ti to think.
He snapped a front kick into Cellan's midsection, forcing a grunt from the challenger, and followed imdiately with a sharp one-two down the middle.
Cellan absorbed the punches, staggering backward.
Damon pressed, not with wild aggression, but with surgical pressure. He jabbed to the head, jabbed to the body, keeping Cellan trapped against the edges of the cage.
When Cellan fired back, Damon covered with tight defense, slipping and rolling shots off his shoulders, making Cellan miss by inches.
Cellan tried to change levels, fainting a takedown to slow the pressure, but Damon sprawled instantly, stuffing the idea before it could even materialize.
He didn't clinch yet. He didn't need to. He kept the fight exactly where he wanted. standing, at range, breaking Cellan down piece by piece.
The crowd could feel it. The comntators spoke over the rising noise.
"This is championship composure," one said. "Cellan's giving everything he's got, but Damon's answering every question without even breaking rhythm."
Damon slid forward, cutting Cellan off again with another sharp combination. A jab to the forehead, a tight left hook to the liver, a finishing right hand upstairs.
The body shot folded Cellan slightly, but the challenger bit down and swung back, firing wild hooks to keep Damon honest.
One right hand clipped Damon's glove and shoulder, brushing him, but it wasn't clean. Damon took a small step back, reset, and cracked another leg kick into the already reddened thigh.
Cellan grunted, switching stances briefly to protect the leg, but Damon imdiately recognized it and adjusted.
He feinted low again, causing Cellan to panic and drop his hands, then fired a piston jab directly through the middle that snapped Cellan's head back.
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