They collided again—a violent blur of limbs and instinct, trading blows in a flurry too fast for the untrained eye to follow. Their styles clashed like opposing philosophies: Jihoon's sharp, refined strikes flowed with clean precision, while Clancy's style was messier, heavier, a brutal fusion of efficiency and aggression born from diverse disciplines.
Clancy ducked under a snap punch and countered with a savage low hook to Jihoon's ribs, feeling the satisfying thud of impact. Jihoon flinched but didn't falter. He responded with a backward leap into a spinning crescent kick, his foot slicing through the air with deadly grace.
Clancy blocked with both forearms, the force driving him back a step.
'He's still moving like that? After all this?'
Jihoon came in again, this time close, throwing a triple-strike combo—a right palm thrust, a side kick to the knee, and a downward elbow all in one seamless motion. Clancy absorbed the palm, sidestepped the kick, and barely rolled with the elbow.
He reached out and grabbed Jihoon's wrist mid-strike, twisted it, and slammed his shoulder into Jihoon's chest, following through with a modified Judo hip toss. This time, Jihoon hit the mat hard.
Clancy leapt back, panting, eyes locked on his opponent.
Jihoon rose slowly, the first signs of exhaustion showing in his breath and eyes. Still, he offered no words, no complaints. Just resolve. The two circled again, feet whispering across the mat.
'He doesn't quit. But neither do I.'
Clancy feinted left and then struck high, launching a spinning heel kick aimed at Jihoon's temple. Jihoon ducked under—but Clancy had expected that. He spun the opposite direction, planting his feet and swinging up into a rising knee, catching Jihoon mid-dodge and driving his kneecap into Jihoon's ribs.
Jihoon exhaled sharply and staggered.
Clancy pressed the advantage.
He followed with a Krav Maga-style elbow to the sternum, then a swift kickboxing uppercut—Jihoon blocked both, but his form was slower now, the stiffness showing.
'He's wearing down. I've got to keep the pressure.'
Clancy switched stances mid-fight, returning to a taekwondo base, bouncing lightly. He flicked out a series of rapid-fire kicks—jab kicks, side kicks, double-switch roundhouses, testing Jihoon's guard, forcing him to keep moving.
Then he dropped low and swept the leg.
Jihoon fell hard—but twisted mid-fall and caught Clancy's ankle, dragging him to the mat with him. The two wrestled on the ground, rolling, elbows flying, knees striking.
Clancy gritted his teeth as Jihoon drove a knee into his thigh, numbing it for a second. He retaliated by grabbing Jihoon's gi and slamming his forehead into Jihoon's collarbone, a vicious, unorthodox move that bought him just enough space to twist out of the grapple.
They rolled apart, both breathing like runners at the end of a marathon. Jihoon's hair stuck to his forehead, sweat dripping from his jaw. Clancy's shirt was soaked, his chest heaving, arms trembling.
No one watching said a word.
Clancy's vision pulsed at the edges. His body begged him to stop.
'One more push. That's all I need.'
Jihoon stepped forward again, a bit slower now. Clancy met him halfway.
They clashed with a final, furious exchange—blows traded with raw power and instinct, technique giving way to grit.
Clancy dodged a strike, parried a front kick, and drove his heel into Jihoon's knee. Jihoon stumbled—and Clancy didn't wait. He stepped in close and drove a devastating spinning back elbow into Jihoon's jaw, the impact echoing like a gunshot.
Jihoon reeled—but didn't fall.
'Come on. Drop, damn it.'
Clancy dropped low, hooked his arm behind Jihoon's other leg, and surged upward with every ounce of strength he had left—slamming Jihoon down hard onto the mat.
Jihoon didn't get up.
He started to push himself off the floor—but his arms trembled, and his muscles refused to cooperate. For the first time, he remained still.
Garrick's voice cut through the silence like a thunderclap.
"That's enough! Match over!"
Clancy staggered back, chest rising and falling like a bellows. His arms dangled at his sides, bruised and leaden. He stared down at Jihoon, who lay on the mat, eyes closed, jaw clenched—not unconscious, but defeated.
The fight was over.
Clancy had won.
But it didn't feel like a victory. It felt like survival.
He looked to Garrick, who gave a slow nod—not approval, not praise, just acknowledgment. Then Clancy looked to Jihoon again.
Jihoon opened his eyes, met Clancy's gaze, and for the first time, gave a small, exhausted nod.
Clancy nodded back.
'Respect. Earned both ways.'
He turned, limped off the mat, and collapsed onto the bench as the next pair stepped forward.
His body ached, his head throbbed, but something inside him had shifted.
He belonged here.
And that was only the first fight.
Clancy sat on the bench, still catching his breath, muscles aching, shirt clinging to his skin like a second layer. His pulse had slowed, but the fatigue was deep now—settled into his joints, his bones.
He rested his head back against the wall and looked toward the mat as Luca and Mira stepped forward.
Luca wore a grin that hadn't left since warm-ups. The guy fought like he lived—loud, cocky, and full of heat. Mira, on the other hand, was the polar opposite—silent, focused, calculating. Clancy couldn't remember hearing her voice all day.
The match began fast. Mira struck first, blurring into a low feint and high jab, forcing Luca to react. She was precise—clinical, even. Clancy could see it in the way she kept her center tight, never overextending, always reading.
But Luca wasn't just throwing wild punches—he adapted quickly, moving with a kind of natural rhythm, slipping in close when Mira expected range. He took a few hits, sure, but when he planted his feet and fired back, it came with weight.
Clancy watched as Luca drove Mira back with a body shot that cracked like a whip. Then came a spinning elbow, and finally a hip toss that planted her on the mat with a thud.
Garrick didn't hesitate. "Match to Luca."
Mira stood up without a word and walked off, brushing sweat from her neck. Luca gave a short bow—half genuine, half arrogant—and stepped off the mat, muttering something about breakfast being heavier than the fight.
Clancy let out a slow breath. 'Alright. That was clean.'
"Dorian and Mariana. On the mat."
Clancy leaned forward slightly, eyes fixed on the mat. He already knew Dorian was 6'11", but seeing him square up under the lights again still made the guy look unreal. Long limbs, thick frame, heavy hands—he looked more like a living battering ram than a person.
Mariana stepped out beside him, and Clancy noted, not for the first time, how built she was. She wasn't just strong—she was solid, her arms and shoulders packed with raw muscle, her stance naturally grounded. But her expression wasn't hard or angry. She carried herself with an ease, a warmth even, that made her intimidating in the most unexpected way.
'Two giants, both nice. This should be... gentle and devastating.'
They met at the center, bowed, and the match began.
The opening seconds were quiet, methodical. No rush. No showing off. Just two people who knew what they were doing.
Mariana moved first—a controlled jab and low kick combo, testing Dorian's footing. Dorian absorbed both, nodding slightly, then advanced with a quick shoulder feint and a sweeping hook that Mariana blocked with both arms. The force made her skid back a few inches, but she smiled, nodding back at him.
Clancy caught himself grinning.
'They're actually enjoying this.'
Mariana shifted stances and came in low, feinting a trip. Dorian adjusted, dropped his center of gravity, and caught her wrist, turning the motion into a gentle redirect rather than a counter. Mariana spun out, twisting free with grace, and stepped back.
The pace picked up—Mariana using quick, sharp bursts, while Dorian kept his movements clean and direct. His reach was a nightmare, but Mariana knew how to work around it, slipping in close and delivering tight body strikes before retreating.
Clancy watched, impressed. 'They're reading each other like books.'
But the difference in size started to show. Mariana ducked under a punch and went for a clinch, trying to muscle Dorian into a throw. She managed to shift his weight—but not enough. He widened his stance, planted his feet, and reversed the momentum, lifting her just enough to break her grip.
He didn't slam her—he never fought with malice—but the takedown was clean, a slow but decisive grounding that left Mariana pinned on her side.
Clancy could see the moment she realized she couldn't power out of it—not without risking injury.
She tapped the mat twice.
Garrick nodded. "Match to Dorian."
Dorian immediately let go and offered her a hand. Mariana accepted it with a grateful smile, pulling herself up without hesitation.
They bowed again—not out of habit, but out of mutual respect.
Clancy leaned his head back against the wall, exhaling slowly.
'That's how it's done.'
These weren't rookies. They were fighters—polished, experienced, disciplined.
And every one of them had something to prove.