The week moved fast. The remaining fighters recovered, the coaches held etings, and the house settled into a tense rhythm.
Everyone already knew who would face who, but the official fight announcents made it real.
In the lightweight bracket, Ayo Fasusi from Nigeria would face Leo Varga from Hungary.
In the middleweight bracket, Arman Petrov from Russia would face Theo Brunner from Germany.
They stood across from each other as nas were called. No surprises. But now it was locked in. Their paths to the final were set.
Ayo stepped forward first, tall and loose, arms folded as always. Leo stayed sharp-eyed, bouncing once before nodding and stepping in to face him. No handshake. Just a look.
Arman followed next, calm and unreadable, hands behind his back. Theo matched him, shoulders squared. He didn’t blink when their eyes t.
The staredowns didn’t last long.
There were no speeches or forced tension. Just recognition. Four fighters. Two weight classes. The last hurdle before the final.
And now, camp officially began. Training schedules split. Corners were decided. Film study, strategy, ga plans. Everything shifted.
Damon stood in the center of the mats, sweat soaking through his shirt as he locked up with Theo.
The German middleweight had raw strength, but Damon wanted to sharpen his inside control. There wasn’t ti for fluff, just hard, practical reps.
"Alright," Damon said, grabbing wrist control. "We’re doing real clinch work now. This isn’t a rest position. It’s a place where you win or lose control."
He pulled Theo in tight, pressed his forehead against his collarbone, and bumped him with a short shoulder strike.
"See that? Always break his posture. No space. He can’t shoot or strike clean if his balance is off."
Theo grunted and tried to puml for inside position, but Damon quickly frad with an elbow, then circled off the cage wall, dragging Theo with him.
"Again," Damon said. "Reset."
The team stood around watching. José leaned against the cage. Elias sat on the ground with a towel around his neck. Kaito crouched near the edge, eyes locked in.
"Now, when he grabs your head, watch this," Damon continued. He let Theo pull a collar tie, then quickly raised his arm, trapping the elbow and stepping through.
"Inside fra. Step out. Control his wrist." He guided Theo’s hand down and twisted his body into a dominant angle.
"From here, I go short knees, or I break off and jab out. Easy."
He turned to the rest of the team. "If you’re fighting soone who likes to grind the clinch, you don’t play static. You win position, or you move. No waiting."
Theo wiped his brow and nodded, breathing through his nose.
"Now let’s talk defense."
Damon reached again and this ti let Theo press him against the cage. "Look at my feet."
He shifted one foot outside and dropped his hips slightly.
"Cage walk with your shoulder. Fra with your underhook. This—" He raised an elbow. "—keeps his weight off you."
Theo tried to tighten the grip. Damon twisted out again, broke the hold, and pivoted off.
"You don’t just stand there. You don’t accept the wall. You grind back."
José stepped forward. "Coach, what if he’s stronger?"
"Then you move faster," Damon answered. "Strength fades. If you let him set and lean, you lose. But if you’re first, if you fra, shift, move, you don’t get stuck."
He looked around. "Now pair up. You’re doing it live. Inside fighting, position changes, one-minute rounds."
As the fighters began grabbing partners, Damon walked past Elias and Kaito.
"I want you two last. You’re fighting soon. Watch and learn before you drill."
The gym filled with the sound of grunts, hand fighting, short knees, and cage thuds. Damon paced slowly, watching footwork, fixing posture, giving cues.
"Fra! Step out! Get that underhook!"
As Damon walked around the room, barking out orders and correcting stances, his attention was fixed on the fighters grinding against the cage.
José had just landed a clean underhook escape, and Damon was mid-shout when the gym door creaked open.
He turned.
A man in a plain black polo and clean slacks stepped inside. He moved with purpose, not rushing, not hesitating.
No one else stopped every fighter kept working like nothing happened. The sounds of knees, grunts, and cage pressure filled the space.
The man walked straight to Damon.
Damon raised an eyebrow, wiping his hand on a towel slung over his shoulder.
The man leaned in and spoke low, just enough for Damon to hear.
"Mr. Black and Coach Novak would like to speak with you. In Mr. Black’s office."
Damon’s brow twitched slightly. Nothing unusual was supposed to be happening today.
He glanced across the room, everything looked normal. No one seed concerned.
He gave a nod and handed his towel to a assistant coach, who looked up from where he was crouched.
"Run it without ," Damon said. "Don’t let them coast."
The coach gave a short nod.
Damon followed the man out, his pace steady. But his mind had already started running.
Damon walked down the hall toward the office, his steps even but his thoughts restless.
He didn’t like being pulled away from training unless it was urgent. Especially not now, with Theo getting better in the clinch and the semifinals right around the corner.
He didn’t understand why Ronan Black and Coach Novak would suddenly want a eting.
Shouldn’t Ivan be busy training his own team? Damon thought.
He shook his head as he neared the door. He could keep guessing, but it wouldn’t matter.
Ronan Black didn’t waste ti with social calls, and Ivan wasn’t the type to drag soone into a room just to chat.
Sothing was up.
Damon reached the office, adjusted his shirt, and knocked once before stepping in.
He stepped inside, shutting the door behind him.
Ivan sat with his arms crossed, one leg over the other.
He looked calm but focused, his expression unreadable. Ronan Black sat beside him, posture upright, fingers laced on the desk.
And next to them was a man Damon didn’t recognize, older, well-dressed, with sharp glasses and a tablet in hand. He looked like soone from head office.
Damon glanced around the room, then slowly took the empty seat across from them.
Ronan gave a brief nod. "Damon. Thanks for coming. We’ve run into an issue here."
Damon leaned forward slightly. "What kind of issue?"
The man in glasses tapped his tablet, but didn’t speak.
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