"Okay," Ronan said, standing in front of both teams, "since Team Cross won the last fight, Damon, you're up to pick the matchup."
Damon stepped forward without hesitation. His expression was calm, but his mind had already made the decision.
He had watched the tapes, paid attention in practice, and spent the night running scenarios. Now it was time to act.
"For us," Damon said, turning to face his team, "Max Taylor."
Max moved forward, rolling his shoulders lightly as he stepped out from the line. He gave a quiet nod to Damon and stood tall.
Damon turned to the other side of the room and pointed. "And from their side… Pedro Santos."
Pedro didn't flinch. He stepped forward without any theatrics, standing across from Max with a quiet, almost expressionless face. His arms were relaxed, but his eyes locked straight onto Max.
The two fighters met in the center of the mat.
Ronan stepped up beside them. "Second fight locked in, Team Cross's Max Taylor versus Team Novak's Pedro Santos."
Both fighters held eye contact for a second longer before stepping back. No words were exchanged.
The tension was real, but professional. Damon watched them carefully, studying the little details, posture, breathing, how each one carried themselves now that the spotlight had hit.
As the teams began to split off, Damon clapped Max on the shoulder. "We'll go over the game plan back at the gym. You're good, Max. You just need to stick to what you're best at and stay sharp."
Max didn't say much, just a nod, but Damon could tell he was ready.
Second fight was set. Now came the prep.
It didn't take long. The moment the picks were done, everyone moved out. Training was next.
Damon led his team back to the gym. Max walked a few steps ahead, quiet and focused, while the rest trailed behind. Damon already had the session mapped out in his head.
He had picked Max and Pedro for a reason. It wasn't random.
Pedro Santos was a clean, technical striker. He didn't waste movement, didn't chase finishes recklessly.
Everything he threw had purpose. Max, on the other hand, was raw but sharp.
He had the tools, long reach, fast hands, good footwork, but needed structure.
Damon believed this was the right matchup to build his confidence and test his composure without the fear of being dragged into a grappling war.
They were both strikers. Neither of them had much depth in their ground game.
Damon didn't see either one shooting for a takedown unless desperate. This was going to be a stand-up chess match, and that was exactly why he chose it.
As they entered the gym, Damon clapped his hands. "Alright, Max, you're with me. Let's get to work."
The rest of the team split off with the assistant coaches, working through drills and pad work.
Damon walked Max to the cage and began breaking down footage, replaying clips of Pedro's foot placement, shoulder movement, and patterns between strikes.
"This guy's sharp," Damon said, pausing a video. "He reads reactions, not movement. So don't flinch. Stay calm, control your jab, and don't follow him, cut him off."
Max nodded slowly, eyes fixed on the screen. Damon knew the real work wouldn't come from watching, it would come from reps. But understanding the why behind each drill mattered too.
The fight was a few days away, but the prep started now. Damon didn't plan to waste a single moment.
On the other side of the building, the sound of engines slowed to a stop as a small convoy of black cars arrived outside the UFA headquarters.
The doors opened, and from the second vehicle, an Asian man stepped out. He wore a dark tailored suit, moved with quiet confidence, and kept his eyes ahead as he adjusted the watch on his wrist.
Without needing to speak, a UFA staff member approached him with a practiced greeting. "This way, sir."
He nodded once and followed the staffer through the entrance. Security gave no trouble, his name was already cleared, and his presence expected.
They moved through the quiet corridors of the executive wing, past a line of glass offices and past framed portraits of legendary fights and past champions. The man didn't pause to look. He'd seen them before.
At the far end of the hall, the staffer opened a large door. Inside, seated behind a polished oak desk, was UFA President Ronan Black. He stood up as the visitor entered.
"Mr. Yamazaki," Ronan said, extending his hand. "Welcome."
Yuto Yamazaki gave a faint nod and shook his hand firmly. "It's been a while."
"Too long," Ronan replied, gesturing to the seat across from him. "Let's get started."
Ronan sat back in his chair, a relaxed expression on his face, though his eyes stayed sharp. He watched as Yuto adjusted his cufflink before sitting.
Yuto looked across the desk and said plainly, "You know, when I first heard your proposal, I thought it was fake. A bluff. Maybe even a trap."
Ronan gave a short laugh. "Hah. We are competitors, after all. But I'm not here to play games." He leaned forward slightly. "Your UNO Champ brand has risen fast. Most promotions die in their second year. You built something real, and fighters respect it."
Yuto gave a small smile, the kind that didn't reveal much. "We built it through war. Talent isn't enough, you know that. We created structure, rules, identity."
He tapped the armrest lightly. "So then, what exactly are you offering?" His tone was calm, but it carried weight.
Ronan pulled a black folder from the desk drawer and slid it across the polished surface. Yuto took it without a word, flipped it open, and began to read.
The room was quiet as he scanned the contents, terms, timelines, exposure details, profit splits. It was all there. Clear. Ambitious. Risky.
After a minute, Yuto closed the file and pushed it back. He chuckled under his breath, then looked up.
"I see your vision," he said. "I think we can work it out."
Ronan gave a slow nod, pleased but not surprised.
Two of the biggest minds in the fighting world, men who had built empires in different corners of the globe, now shook hands in quiet agreement.
Whatever they were planning, it wasn't small. And once it moved, the sport would never be the same.