Mara was on me immediately between rounds with water and ice. Her voice cut through the noise. “He's faster than you expected. You need to slow him down. Work the body. Make him carry your weight.”
I nodded and couldn't waste breath on words.
Round two started harder. He came out more aggressive and threw combinations that forced me to cover up. He landed a clean shot to my ribs that made pain flare hot and immediate.
I countered with a low kick and then another, targeting his lead leg and making him carry damage.
He adjusted and started checking my kicks. He threw his own that landed on my thigh hard enough to make me limp slightly.
Three minutes of violence passed with both of us landing and both of us taking damage. The crowd noise swelled with every exchange.
Round three was where he hurt me.
He caught me with an uppercut I didn't see coming. My head snapped back. Stars exploded behind my eyes. I stumbled.
He pressed forward and threw a combination to my head. I blocked most of it but took one shot clean on the temple that made my legs go weak.
The cage caught me and held me up. He came in for the finish.
I grabbed him and clinched up, buying time while my brain reset and my vision cleared. The referee warned us to work. I threw knees into his midsection, short and sharp. I heard him grunt.
We broke apart. I blinked blood out of my left eye and didn't remember getting cut but the warmth running down my face said otherwise.
The round ended. I made it back to my corner on instinct.
Mara's hands were on my face immediately. “Declan. Look at me.”
I focused on her. “I'm okay.”
“You're bleeding.” She worked on it with urgency and pressed something cold against the wound. “You need to finish this in the next two rounds or the doctor's going to stop it.”
“I'm finishing it.”
“Then fucking do it. Because right now you look like you're getting your ass kicked.”
She was right. I was losing. The champion was younger and faster and making me look old.
But I wasn't done yet.
Round four was a war. I changed tactics and started pressing forward instead of reacting. I made him deal with my weight and my pressure. I threw body shots that made him wince and low kicks that accumulated.
He tried to circle out. I cut him off and drove him into the cage. I worked him there with knees and short punches.
We broke. He threw a spinning back fist that I ducked under. My counter caught him clean on the jaw. His legs wobbled.
I pressed and threw everything I had with combination after combination. He covered up and backed away. He survived until the bell.
But I'd hurt him and finally put doubt in his eyes.
Round five was desperation with both of us exhausted, both bleeding, and both running on fumes and will.
He came out swinging and tried to finish me before I could finish him. He landed shots that made my vision swim and made my legs betray me.
I fired back and threw hooks that crashed into his guard. I threw body shots that stole his breath and low kicks that made him stumble.
We stood in the center trading violence with no defense, just offense, just the brutal mathematics of who could take more damage.
The crowd was screaming with deafening noise that became white static.
