The bell rang again, signaling the start of the second round.
Damon took a steady breath as he stood, his body coiled and ready. He realized how easily he had been caught in the last round.
It didn't even make sense, Jon's speed wasn't anything special, nothing he hadn't seen before. But that overhand had come in just right, right when he wasn't expecting it.
He wouldn't let it happen again. Damon had learned enough in that first round to know Jon's power was real. He wouldn't underestimate it a second time.
As the horn sounded again, Damon took the center of the cage quickly, then began circling out, using every inch of space to his advantage.
His footwork was sharper, his guard higher, eyes locked on Jon. He watched for every twitch of Jon's shoulders, every faint drop of his weight.
He moved in and out, testing with quick jabs, tapping at Jon's guard. Each time he stepped in, he made sure his head wasn't there for the counter.
His legs felt strong, the bounce in his step coming back, like he'd shaken off the ghosts of that knockdown.
Jon didn't rush in recklessly. He stalked forward, patient, his own eyes scanning for an opening.
He knew Damon had adjusted, but he wasn't going to let the younger fighter slip away so easily.
Damon kept moving, bouncing on his toes, looking for his shot. He knew Jon was dangerous up close, so he worked to stay just out of reach, testing the distance, finding those inches where he could land, and Jon couldn't.
This was a fight Damon knew he could still win, it just needed to be on his terms. And this time, he was ready for anything Jon threw.
Damon kept his distance at first, moving laterally with short steps, never crossing his feet.
He flicked out a jab to keep Jon honest, feeling the sting in his knuckles as it snapped off the bigger man's guard.
Jon's eyes were focused, his shoulders tensed, waiting for the moment to explode again.
Victor's voice cut through the noise. "Damon! Keep the distance, don't trade!"
But Damon didn't fully listen. He wasn't afraid to get close.
Every time he saw Jon hesitate, he stepped in, planting a hard low kick into Jon's lead leg or throwing a sharp left hook to the ribs.
He was testing Jon, not just in range but in the pocket, where the power could end things fast.
He felt the difference in Jon's weight, each time they clashed, Jon's shots felt heavier, his guard more stubborn.
But Damon was faster, and he knew how to use that speed. He didn't stay long in Jon's range, pivoting out before Jon could plant and counter.
Between those sharp exchanges, Damon began to work in the Ghost Punch. It was a fast shot, a blur to the body, mostly from a low angle or odd step.
He threw it like a flicker, never loading up, letting it slip under Jon's elbow or across his ribs.
It was too quick for Jon to see. Damon felt the connection each time, but he didn't stay to see the result. He just kept moving.
He watched Jon's face, looking for any flicker of recognition, any sign that Jon was starting to feel those shots.
But Jon was a veteran, he kept his focus tight, even as Damon's strikes landed. He swung back with his own heavy punches, looping hooks that Damon felt graze his guard, the thud of power always there.
They traded in bursts. Damon would step in with a flurry, jab, low kick, Ghost Punch to the body then step back out, never giving Jon a clear target.
Jon responded with short, sharp counters, his own heavy hands cracking against Damon's arms and shoulders when they landed.
Damon knew he was better, and he had to show it. He kept the Ghost Punch hidden in the chaos, slipping it in between his combinations like a secret weapon.
The crowd roared every time they clashed in the center. Damon knew he was winning the exchanges, even if Jon's power was always there like a threat.
He didn't let himself relax for a second, he kept moving, kept measuring, knowing that one slip could change everything.
Victor's voice was still there—"Open the space, Damon! Use your reach!"—but Damon trusted his instincts.
He didn't give Jon the chance to find a rhythm.
Damon switched levels, firing off a stiff jab to the head, then feinting low and slamming a right to Jon's midsection.
The glove sank into the bigger man's ribs, and for a brief moment, Damon felt Jon's breath catch.
Jon answered back with a hook to the body, pivoting his hips into the shot.
Damon felt it crack against his side, a sharp jolt of pain that stole his breath for a second.
He kept his eyes up, though, didn't let it show. He slipped to the outside and cracked a left hook across Jon's jaw, using the angle to reset.
Jon pressed in, shoulders hunched, guard tight, those eyes never blinking.
He let go a chopping right hand, trying to find Damon's chin, but Damon bent at the waist, rolling under it and coming up with a quick uppercut that popped Jon's head back a fraction.
Damon didn't stay in front of him, he angled out, making Jon turn to follow.
He kept that pressure just enough to be a threat but never enough to let Jon set his feet.
When Jon threw a lazy jab, Damon slipped and pivoted, firing the Ghost Punch to the body.
He didn't load it, didn't telegraph it, just let it snap out and land, a quick thump that seemed to cut through the air.
Jon's face didn't change, but Damon saw the faint drop of his guard for half a second.
He let his hands go, a quick three-punch combo, finishing with a low kick that buckled Jon's base for a moment.
The crowd's roar grew with every exchange, a wave of noise rolling over them.