Zulu postured again. Sweat poured from his shoulders and back. His arms were fast but beginning to slow. Still, his pressure didn’t stop.
He raised another elbow.
Damon yelled louder. "Trap the arm! Now! Bridge! Bridge hard!"
Elias bucked his hips. The motion was sharp and desperate.
He twisted left, grabbing Zulu’s elbow and trying to roll, but Zulu held firm. His base was wide. He floated on top, adjusting without overcommitting.
He pinned Elias again.
This time, Elias’s arms stayed up but weren’t fighting as much.
Ivan’s voice cut through. "More! Zulu! Don’t stop now! Break him!"
Zulu responded with another flurry. Elbows. Left, right. Then a hammerfist. Elias turned his face away. Blood trickled from his brow to the mat.
Zulu grabbed behind the head and pulled it in, then rocked two heavy punches into Elias’s temple.
Damon stepped forward, gripping the top of the cage. "Guard! You have to move or he’ll stop it!"
Elias’s arms came up again, but slower. He tried to reach Zulu’s wrist, but Zulu broke the grip and threw another shot.
Elias twisted again, this time hooking one leg onto the fence. He tried to use it to shift his hips sideways, but Zulu slammed his weight down and pinned him once more.
The ref edged even closer now, watching the eyes, the hands, the body language.
Zulu sat up and pounded another punch down, harder this time.
Elias’s guard opened for just a second. A left elbow landed flush.
Damon’s voice cut in. "Move now or he stops it! You need to show something!"
Elias’s hand came up, palm weakly framing Zulu’s bicep.
Zulu brushed it aside and threw again.
Another elbow landed.
Elias covered. Didn’t answer.
The ref warned: "You gotta move! Show me something!"
Ivan roared from behind the fence, "Finish it! Zulu, now!"
Zulu leaned in. He gritted his teeth and dropped three more shots, one to the cheek, another to the temple, and the last to the jaw.
Elias’s arms slipped away from his face. They flared out to the sides.
But no longer defending.
Zulu raised one final elbow, then slammed it down.
The ref dove in between them.
Zulu rolled off, breathing hard, soaked in sweat. His chest heaved. He didn’t smile, just stared forward, trying to catch his breath.
Elias turned onto his side, eyes squinting through the blood, one hand trying to wipe it away as the medics rushed in.
Damon exhaled and lowered his arms. He nodded quietly. Elias had given everything, but it wasn’t enough.
Ivan grinned from ear to ear, pumping his fist into the air. "That’s my boy! That’s how you do it!"
Zulu rose slowly, wiped his forehead, and pointed toward his corner before walking away.
The cage felt quiet now. Not because there was no noise, but because everything that had to be said had already been thrown in fists and elbows.
The storm was over. And Zulu had stood in the center of it.
He smacked his chest, breathing hard, and turned to his corner as Ivan burst in with the team.
Ivan didn’t wait, he wrapped his arms around Zulu, lifting him slightly before pulling back and slapping the side of his head with a grin.
"You did it!" Ivan shouted. "That’s how you fight!"
Zulu nodded, still catching his breath. His expression wasn’t cocky, just focused. His eyes scanned the cage one last time before he let the moment settle.
The rest of the corner joined in. One wrapped an arm over his shoulders, another handed him water, but Ivan’s presence was the loudest. He looked proud. Like the weight on his chest had finally lifted.
They hadn’t expected to win the lightweight, at least not anymore. That slot was hanging by a thread.
But now they had two men confirmed in the middleweight division going forward. It gave Ivan breathing room. It gave the team hope.
He looked back at Elias, who was sitting against the fence with the doctor checking his eye. Damon crouched beside him, quiet but attentive.
Ivan turned back to Zulu.
"Rest now," he said. "You’re one step closer."
Zulu didn’t respond. He just kept sipping his water, nodding slowly.
Damon, the moment he saw the referee step in, looked down.
He didn’t react right away. He just stood there, hands on his hips, then wiped his face with his palm in a slow, heavy sigh.
Ronny had done his part, but Elias... Elias had fallen short. Not by much, but in this kind of competition, "not by much" didn’t count for anything.
Damon kept his eyes on the mat, thinking. Not just about Elias, but about the momentum. About the psychological effect these losses could have on the team.
They had started strong. Now they were bleeding points.
He looked over at his remaining fighters, some stretching, some silent.
He exhaled through his nose and nodded to himself. They needed to win the next one. No matter what. The bleeding had to stop.
There couldn’t be a third.
Because if there was a third, then there’d be a fourth.
Losing could become a pattern, and Damon knew how hard it was to stop a pattern once it took hold. Momentum worked both ways, and right now, they were sliding.
But there wasn’t time to sulk.
Now it was time to go back and recover.
His mind was already somewhere else.
There was something he feared coming. Something he couldn’t avoid.
His own fighters would have to fight each other.
The bracket had finally narrowed to that point. The middleweights had won. Ronny had won.
And now, the path forward meant splitting his own unit apart. It was no longer about building up each man to fight the outsiders.
Now it was about choosing which of his men would move forward, and which would fall.
He walked in silence, his footsteps behind the team. He knew they were thinking about it too.
How was he going to train them?
How do you push two people to win when only one can?
How do you stay neutral when you know that both of them look at you for guidance, expecting you to help them prepare?
Damon didn’t have the answer yet.
But the question was already waiting.