As soon as the referee signaled for the fight to continue, both fighters rushed ahead. There was no more doubt. No more plans. Pure, strong aggression.
Niklas, despite his clearly compromised arm, swung first, a stiff right hand that cracked against Demaien's jaw.
Demaien barely flinched.
He fired back immediately, a sharp left hook that sent Niklas stumbling for a moment, but he refused to back down.
The two young warriors stood toe to toe, planting their feet and letting their fists fly.
Irish Commentator: "Oh, they're just standing in front of each other! This is madness!"
Polish Commentator: "Technique is out the window! It's all heart now!"
Niklas threw another wild right hook. Demaien ate it and returned fire with a brutal uppercut, snapping Niklas's head back.
The Polish fighter spat out, but his eyes burned with defiance. He gritted his teeth and came forward again, swinging with recklessness.
The crowd was in a frenzy.
Niklas was still moving, but the signs of wear were undeniable. His left arm barely lifted, and every time he tried to use it, his movement looked unnatural.
His punches were now mostly one-handed, but he made up for it with sheer ferocity.
Demaien pressed forward, his confidence surging.
A heavy right cross landed flush, and for a second, it looked like Niklas would go down.
But instead, he grunted, shaking his head, and fired back a looping right hand that smashed against Demaien's cheek.
The Irish fighter stumbled but planted his feet again, gritting through the pain.
Then, something changed.
Demaien let out a deep breath and stepped forward, arms loose, his stance relaxed, almost too relaxed.
Irish Commentator: "Oh, what's this? Ncguygan's changing something up here."
Polish Commentator: "He's taunting him! He's daring Lebrowski to keep coming!"
Niklas wasn't going hesitate. He threw another right hand.
Demaien saw it coming. He slipped just enough for the punch to graze his ear, then exploded forward with a counter left that rocked Niklas's head sideways.
But Niklas didn't go down.
Demaien's chest rose and fell with heavy breaths, his body screaming at him to stop.
His arms felt like dead weight, his legs unsteady beneath him.
Every movement was slower now, his muscles drained from the war he had just endured.
Across from him, Niklas was in the same state, his left arm barely responding, his breathing ragged.
Neither man had broken.
Niklas took a step forward, wobbling slightly. Demaien did the same.
The referee was watching closely, ready to step in if either collapsed. But neither would. Not yet.
Niklas threw a right hand, slower than before but still carrying intent.
Demaien saw it, but his body barely reacted in time, he moved just enough for it to graze his cheek.
In return, he threw a left hook, but his exhaustion dulled its power. It landed, but not clean.
Niklas didn't stop. He shuffled forward again, lifting his right leg for a kick, but there was nothing behind it.
Demaien absorbed it and instinctively wrapped his arms around Niklas, hooking a leg.
The takedown was sluggish, not like the explosive ones from earlier, but it didn't need to be.
Niklas, completely spent, couldn't stop it. He crashed onto his back with a grunt, his body too drained to scramble up.
Demaien moved to mount, but there was no strength left to posture up. Instead, he draped himself over Niklas, throwing small, weak punches. They were more of a message than a threat.
Irish Commentator: "And Ncguygan just drags him down to the ground! He's empty, but he knows this is the safest spot!"
Polish Commentator: "Lebrowski can't get up, he has nothing left either! This fight is over in everything but name!"
Niklas barely lifted his hands to defend, his head rolling to the side as Demaien's weak punches rained down. He tried to shift, to bridge, but there was no power left in his body.
The bell finally sounded.
Both fighters went limp at the same time, completely drained. The referee stepped in, pulling Demaien off Niklas.
The Irishman rolled onto his back, chest heaving, staring at the bright lights above.
The cage doors slammed open, and the Irish team rushed in. No celebrations, no smiles, this wasn't over yet.
Demaien barely had the strength to stand, his body wrecked from the war.
His legs wobbled, his breathing was ragged, but the team dragged him to the cage wall and let him slump against it.
His arms draped over his knees, head tilted back, chest heaving.
Damon was already on him, twisting the cap off a water bottle and pouring it over his head without asking.
The cold splash jolted Demaien's senses, and before he could react, Damon shoved the bottle into his hands.
"Drink," Damon said simply.
But Tommy Hughes wasn't giving him time to recover. He stormed over, shoving past another cornerman and crouching in front of Demaien, eyes wild, voice rough.
"Listen 'ere, ye feckin' madman," Tommy barked, slapping Demaien's knee. "I dunno what in God's name that last exchange was, but ye better pray the judges saw it right."
Demaien coughed, half-drinking, half-spitting out the water.
Tommy leaned in closer, his thick accent making every word sound like a challenge. "Ye let 'im land too much! Had 'im feckin' hurt, and what'd ye do? Brawled like a street lad! Ye out of yer damn mind?!"
Demaien blinked, still trying to catch his breath.
Tommy shook his head, rubbing his bald scalp aggressively before pointing toward the officials. "If we lose this feckin' match, ye better hope it's from a robbery 'cause if it's not—" He cut himself off, growling.
Victor finally stepped in, placing a firm hand on Tommy's shoulder. "Alright, Tommy, that's enough."
Tommy huffed but backed up, pacing behind the team, hands on his hips. "Feckin' shite. We shoulda had that clean."
Damon, still crouched next to Demaien, exhaled through his nose. "You did good," he muttered, quieter than Tommy but just as serious. "Now we wait."
The entire arena held its breath as the judges finalized their decision.