The round continued. The bell hadn't saved either of them, it only reminded the world how close this war was.
Max sat on his stool, breathing heavy but sharp. Sweat coated his face, and the marks across his ribs were starting to darken.
Across the cage, Pedro leaned forward on his own stool, elbows on his knees, eyes locked across the mat.
Damon stood over Max, holding the water bottle but not speaking just yet. His eyes stayed on Pedro for a moment longer. He was impressed.
The kid had more composure than expected, and while Max had done enough to stay in it, Damon knew the tide could shift with the smallest slip.
"He's sharper than I thought," Damon admitted to the assistant beside him before turning back to Max. "You're lucky he doesn't know how to wrestle. That scramble? He should've taken your back. You're giving up too much trying to figure it out mid-fight."
Max nodded, wiping his face, still catching his breath.
"But you're in it," Damon continued, tone direct but calm. "He's getting tired too. You both are. The difference is going to be decision-making. You hear me? You make better choices, you win this."
Max nodded again, more solid this time.
"You stay long when you're out of breath. You get lazy, he'll time you. So don't do that. And no more desperate shots, keep it standing unless you're setting it up with damage."
Max exhaled, let it sink in.
Damon patted his shoulder. "You want it? Then prove it. You're not going to get another one where it's in reach."
Across the cage, Pedro stood now too, bouncing on his toes again. Ivan leaned in close, giving a calm, calculated breakdown, his voice lower but firm. Pedro just nodded, wiping blood from his nose, nodding with a blank stare.
The ref stepped in and waved the corners out.
Damon leaned forward with his arms on the cage, his eyes locked on the two lightweights trading in the center. He wasn't shouting anymore. He just watched, sharp and silent.
This fight wasn't going to the judges. He felt it in the tempo, in the power behind the shots, in the way both corners had stopped barking and started holding their breath. Someone was going down. It was just a question of who broke first.
The exchanges were getting heavier. Max's head snapped back from a clean right, but he didn't stumble.
He kept walking forward, firing back with a flurry that clipped Pedro clean on the cheek. Damon didn't even flinch. He just nodded slightly to himself.
The thing that surprised him most wasn't Max's skill, it was his chin. Max was taking real shots, flush, and still answering.
Damon had seen prospects fold with less, and yet here Max was, gritting his teeth and walking through hell.
But that made it harder. Damon couldn't even pick a winner in his head. Pedro was landing cleaner, but Max's pressure and pace were suffocating.
If either man made one wrong read, it was lights out. This wasn't point fighting. This was a war.
"Come on, Max," Damon muttered under his breath. "You've got more. Use it."
Another roar came from the crowd as Pedro landed a stiff uppercut. Max buckled but didn't drop. He circled wide, shook it off, then came forward again.
Damon exhaled slowly.
This was a coin flip loaded with TNT.
The second round was already chaos. Both men had traded so much that neither corner was sure who was ahead.
Damon stood just outside the cage, his arms crossed, but his focus sharp. He shouted clearly, not out of panic but urgency.
"Tuck your chin, Max! You're standing too tall! Move your feet!"
Max heard him. He didn't nod or look back, he just adjusted. His stance tightened, shoulders lifted, and he kept his chin low.
He no longer stood flat-footed. He was bouncing, staying light, and giving Pedro less to aim at.
Pedro stayed in range, eyes locked on Max, testing him with quick feints and stepping in behind short punches.
He was trying to create angles, not just pressure.
Max returned fire with sharp counters, landing to the body and occasionally clipping the ribs when Pedro leaned in too much.
But Pedro kept coming. He wasn't slowing down.
Ivan barked from the other side, "Use your jab! Stay long! Don't trade!"
Pedro didn't listen. He was enjoying the firefight too much.
He slipped a shot, came forward with a tight right, then followed with a low kick that forced Max to adjust his footing.
Max fired back with a short combination, but Pedro slipped under and cracked him with a clean shot to the temple.
Max backed up two steps, shaking his head, but stayed in the fight.
Damon called again. "Max! Stop chasing the knockout. Keep your shape!"
Max threw another combination, but Pedro ducked under it and exploded into a sloppy takedown attempt.
It wasn't clean, but Max wasn't prepared. His sprawl came late.
He stayed standing, but Pedro clung to the leg and forced him down using sheer momentum. It wasn't technique, it was desperation.
On the ground, Max looked lost. He had no wrestling base. He tried to scramble, but Pedro held him in place.
The problem was Pedro didn't know what to do either. He landed one elbow but didn't posture up. He tried to pass but got stuck in Max's half guard.
They wrestled awkwardly for control until Max managed to explode upward and reset to his feet. Both men were breathing hard now, but neither looked ready to quit.
They separated, touched gloves briefly out of instinct, and stood tall again.
Damon shouted instructions, but Max didn't wait for them this time. He adjusted his stance, stepped right, and fainted low.
Pedro bit on the faint, dropping slightly as if expecting a body shot.
It wasn't wide or heavy. Just short and direct, a clean right hand that cut the space sharply.
Pedro's eyes rolled before his body hit the canvas.