CHAPTER 755: CHAPTER 755: EDGE OF CONTROL

The pace had barely slowed before the horn cut through the room, sharp and final.

Both fighters froze for a split second, instinct still alive in their eyes, before they turned and made their way to their corners.

Gloves dropped. Chests heaved.

Kaito exhaled hard as he sat down, wiping sweat from his brow. .

Across the mat, Chase didn’t sit.

He paced.

Smirking. Rolling his shoulders loose. Occasionally glancing toward Kaito like he already knew how the second round would go.

His corner didn’t say much. They knew his rhythm was a thing you didn’t tamper with. He’d fight how he fought.

But Damon watched as he saw through the show.

He saw the precision underneath the play.

And he knew, if Kaito didn’t start pulling the momentum back soon, Chase was going to drown him in style.

Damon dropped to one knee in front of Kaito, his tone calm but direct.

"He’s trying to drown you in rhythm," Damon said, his eyes locked on Kaito’s. "It looks like a game, but it’s layered. He’s drawing reactions, jab, spin, slip, just to see how you breathe."

Kaito nodded, wiping his face with a towel as he listened.

"You can’t chase him. You don’t catch footwork with speed. You cut it off with pressure," Damon continued. "Forget counters for now. Forget clean shots. Get in his face, force resets. Make him work."

Kaito’s breathing slowed, and his focus sharpened.

"Make him stop dancing. Touch the body. Elbows on the break. Make it ugly if you have to, but break his pattern."

Damon tapped Kaito’s chest once, then stood up.

"He’s winning the game. Change the game."

The ten-second clapper echoed across the gym. Kaito rose, shoulders set, eyes steady now, not frustrated, but calculated.

He understood the assignment.

And Chase wouldn’t be dancing alone anymore.

The bell rang. Kaito stepped out with purpose, a clear plan in his head.

Cut angles. Get close. Touch the body. Break the rhythm.

He stayed tight, chin down, hands up, pressing forward behind a stiff jab aimed at the chest.

Chase, for a moment, looked like he was about to dance again, hips loose, bouncing in place.

But Damon narrowed his eyes. Something was off.

Chase wasn’t smiling.

The bounce stopped. His chin dipped.

Then he struck.

He didn’t circle or feint. He stepped directly into Kaito’s space and unleashed a right hand that landed flush on the guard, followed by a heavy left hook that crashed against the ribs.

The force sent Kaito stumbling back, surprised by the sudden aggression.

Chase was on him instantly.

A flying knee snapped up, missing by inches as Kaito ducked reflexively.

But before he could recover, Chase crashed in with a jab-cross that smacked through the guard and a chopping elbow that grazed the temple.

Kaito backpedaled, trying to reset. Chase didn’t let him.

He threw a calf kick that made Kaito’s leg twitch, then fired a stiff teep to the belly, pushing him into the cage.

No more dancing. No more wide feints. This was direct, compact violence.

Kaito raised his hands and circled out, but Chase followed, cutting him off with a slicing hook to the body and a tight uppercut that scraped past the chin. He wasn’t showboating. He was hunting.

Kaito tried to clinch to slow him down.

Chase swam inside, broke the grip, and threw a short knee that cracked against Kaito’s thigh. Then he shoved him off and landed a backhand that made the corner shout.

Damon stood now. His arms crossed.

Kaito had thought Chase was flash.

But this? This was firepower.

Chase stayed on him, jabbing at the eyes, then ripping the body. Every movement was efficient. Every strike connected or set up the next.

Kaito ducked under a hook and fired a counter right.

Chase leaned off-center, rolled, and came back with a snapping right hand across the jaw.

Kaito’s legs staggered. Not fully rocked, but he felt it.

Another jab, another teep, a slick head movement to avoid the return shot, and a brutal left hook to the liver that made Kaito wince.

Chase saw it. He feinted the same hook, then went upstairs, right cross, sharp elbow.

Kaito covered and backed into the wall again, overwhelmed.

Chase wasn’t fighting the way Kaito expected. There was no rhythm to break. There was no timing to intercept.

Kaito wiped his brow with the inside of his glove. He tried to settle back into the game plan, elbows on the break, pressure, touch the body.

But none of that mattered if he couldn’t see the shots coming.

Chase was already cutting in again.

There was no tell. No bounce. Just a fast shift of weight and a jab that cracked Kaito between the eyes.

It wasn’t clean, but it disrupted him. Chase slid off the centerline and threw a shovel hook to the liver.

Kaito’s elbow dropped instinctively.

Chase had already pivoted around him, stepping behind the guard, and threw a spinning back elbow that grazed Kaito’s temple.

It didn’t knock him down. It didn’t even drop him to a knee.

But it scrambled the plan.

Kaito stumbled a half step. Chase was already back in front of him. He threw a low kick that swept across the calf and followed with a body shot so tight it sounded like a baseball bat cracking.

Kaito fired back now, three-punch combo up top, a knee inside.

He hit air.

Chase dipped, weaved, slid out and back in. He cut under the third shot and answered with a step-in elbow that clipped Kaito’s cheek.

Kaito grabbed the clinch, tried to slow things, regain control.

But Chase wasn’t letting him breathe.

He hand-fought through the clinch and threw a sharp right knee to the inside thigh.

Kaito tried to pull the head in, but Chase posted on the collarbone and threw a short elbow straight down.

The sound was flat and heavy.

Kaito dropped the clinch.

Chase faked high, then slammed a side kick into the belly, backing him up.

Then another.

He was everywhere.

Kaito tried to circle left, Chase met him with a head kick. It partially landed on the guard, but the power rocked his footing again. He circled right, Chase spun with him and cracked a hook to the chin.

Then he disappeared.

Kaito stepped in, expecting a counter.

Nothing.

Then Chase was behind him, he’d spun off the angle and tagged the body again, then slipped under a wild hook and hit the ribs with another straight.

The shots weren’t monstrous.

They were accumulative. Sharp. Cruel.

Chase didn’t throw five-punch combos. He threw one. Then repositioned. Then another. Then switched stance mid-motion and jabbed with his rear hand.

He was painting the canvas with movement.

Kaito adjusted his base, bit down, and charged with a high guard. He managed to corner Chase briefly against the wall.

This was it. Cut the cage. Break the rhythm.

He fired a tight 1-2, then a knee.

Chase didn’t panic.

He parried, blocked, ducked under the knee, and twisted his hips into a spinning elbow that caught Kaito across the face as clean as anything landed that night.

Kaito’s legs buckled.

His glove hit the canvas. A flash knockdown.

The ref stepped closer but didn’t wave it off. Kaito surged back up, breathing hard, blood now on the corner of his mouth.

Damon stood still, watching closely.

Chase gave Kaito a smirk but didn’t say a word.

They clashed again. Kaito threw a knee. Chase caught it. Turned him. Tripped the base.

Kaito hit the mat.

It wasn’t a grappling match. Chase didn’t follow. He let Kaito rise.

And the moment he did, Chase snapped a head kick up that rattled the guard and followed with a hook that slammed through it.

Kaito covered, throwing wild hands now. Nothing was clean.

Chase ducked under a looping right and countered with a tight uppercut.

The head snapped. The body followed.

Kaito tried to clinch again, but Chase angled out, then stepped in with one last, perfect shot, a leaping hook that curved behind the ear.

Kaito dropped.

Face-first.

The ref jumped in.

"Stop! That’s it!"