Brandin followed his feint with a low kick. He kept his distance, slipping from the jabs his opponent was throwing his way. Another low kick to Hitryel's lead leg followed.
The round had been going for well over 3 minutes already, so now was the time to fully commit to the strategy Brandin bought into the Nonagon with him.
Hitryel threw a light jab, gauging the distance.
Brandin took half-a-step back, escaping Wolf's range. He used his reach advantage to hit his opponent's lead leg once again.
"That makes it 15, Larris," Rube said. "Those leg kicks are vicious. Just reminds people that Geraal is not just your average kicker, he's an elite, elite striker."
"If the champion continues to take those kicks," Larris said, "his balance is going to get wrecked for the next rounds. Though his expression might remain the same, Hystryk cannot fake the damage he's taking onto his lead leg."
Hitryel closed in with a left jab, right fist pulled back. Brandin slid back, throwing a body kick, following it up with a left hook, maintaining the distance crucial for his strategy.
"That was the first takedown attempt by Hystryk," Rube said. "If he crouched any faster, that hard body kick could've made contact with his temple."
"Geraal has found the optimal distance," Larris said. "He goes for Hystryk's lead leg, and then he retreats. A good way to force your opponent back."
Brandin threw another leg kick to Hitryel's lead leg. Hitryel took the kick, and moved closer with one of his own. Brandin slid underneath it, throwing a body shot with his right fist, stepping away right after.
"Beautiful exchange by the brawlers," Rube said. "However, only Geraal seems to know what he's doing, while the champion appears to be simply waiting for an opening."
"If he's looking for an opening," Larris said, "he needs to find one quicker than this. If Hystryk lets this play out for any longer, the round is going to end with his left leg having gobbled up 20 or more leg kicks."
Brandin feinted high with his right leg, making Hitryel guard his head. This would be the final assault on the lead leg of the Wolf, so Brandin threw another low kick at Hitryel's lead leg.
"He's just chopping away at Hytryk's leg!" Rube said. "That one shook him more than any of the previous ones. He seriously needs to somehow evade those axes, or he might as well be going flat."
"Only 1 minute left of this round," Larris said. "Will the number of kicks Geraal can connect with Hystryk's leg go any higher than 17 in this round?"
'I know it's hurting you, Hitryel,' Brandin thought. 'So on the next kick, defend your lead leg. Come on, Wolf, you can do it.'
Brandin moved a tiny step closer, enforcing his right leg with vigor.
Then it happened. This is what Brandin had been waiting for this entire round.
Hitryel's eyes rolled down to inspect Brandin's feet on the canvas. With Hitryel's eyes down, his body prepared for a leg kick, and his mind anticipating the same…this would be the perfect time for a whiplash kick.
In their first fight, Hitryel ate up the barely set up whiplash kick. In the second one, he managed to slide back at the last moment. However, this time Brandin had made sure to not hint any use of his signature move throughout the past 9 minutes.
Waiting…only for this moment.
Brandin threw a low kick, making Hitryel drop his hands.
Brandin smiled. 'You're done!'
He whipped his already thrown kick outward, before it made any contact, only to curve it inward and upward at Hitryel's head. The arc of this slashing kick is what gained him his name.
"BOOMERANG—!"
Hitryel slipped underneath the kick, turning his whole body in the direction of the whiplash. He tucked in the leg that had received zero punishment throughout their fight as he spun around. Within completion of the 180 degree rotation of his shoulders, Hitryel extended his right leg straight at Brandin's chest.
Brandin's eyes rolled back into his skull the moment the spinning kick stomped against his ribs, head knocking forward, shoulders collapsing together, arms falling outward. 'You were…looking at my other leg…?'
The spectators got up from their seats, yelling out loud.
"Holy—" Rube said. "That was NOT a pretty sound, Larris. Are we seeing this right? The referee is checking on the challenger. Hystryk sent Geraal flying to the canvas with a brutal spinning kick. He countered Geraal's whiplash kick with a spinning kick of his own! Wow! Absolutely stunning!"
"That kick was so good that it almost made my buddy's tongue slip out," Larris said. "But I can't blame him. Hystryk shut down everything Geraal's been setting up for the whole round with a SINGLE kick of his own. That's the Hungry Wolf for you, ladies and gentlemen."
The referee removed Brandin's mouthguard, waving hands over his head right after, the bell ringing to indicate the end of this brawl.
The crowd roared through and through.
"Hitryel Hystryk has defended his light heavyweight title with a clean knockout!" Rube announced. "Hitryel Hystryk is still the Light Heavyweight Champion of ABC Imperos!"
"I felt that knockout all the way to our desk, Rube," Larris said. "That spinning kick was mean. Mean AND violent."
"The medics by Geraal's side are checking up on him," Rube said. "It doesn't take a doctor to tell you that Hystryk's kick definitely broke something."
###
"Ladies and gentlemen," the announcer said. "The winner of tonight's title match by a round 2 knockout, and STILL the Light Heavyweight Champion of Imperos, Hitryel 'Hungry Wolf' Hystryk!"
Like usual, Hitryel did not let the referee raise his hand. He couldn't even be bothered to take the gigantic belt that these people called a "title" outside of the Nonagon, instead, handing it over to the ABC president who stood by his side—wearing a fake smile over his face—and would later transfer it to Hitryel's locker room.
"Hitryel," whispered Filep—the president. "Not this again. People don't like this. Your attitude is going to ruin your reputation."
Hitryel shrugged, turning away. "I don't give a fluck. Not about that."
He moved closer to the announcer, the audience cheering outside of the cage. He asked for the thing that the announcer used to make his voice be heard throughout the arena. The microphone. The announcer gave the device without any arguments.
Seeing this device in his hand, the spectators started to quiet down.
"So," Hitryel said dryly into the mic, turning to Filep. "I just wanted to let you guys know that I'm done."
The spectators started to whisper amongst each other.
"What?" said the bald commentator. "Is he announcing his retirement?"
"30 and 0, Rube," said the blue-suited commentator. "It shouldn't be a surprise. As far as his division goes, he's the best right now."
"It's because of this smoking guy," Hitryel said, pointing at Filep. "He promised me a fight with the best fighter in this land three years ago. I won't listen to any more of his 'conditions.' Either I finally get the fight that I came looking for or I'm done putting up with this bullspit."
"You're forgetting your place again, Hitryel," Filep whispered, teeth gritted underneath his smile. "It's in your contract that you HAVE to take the fights that I offer you. Do you think people want to see a barely-lightweight like you fight the champion of the hea—?"
"Maxvil Kartur," Hitryel cut the man off, looking up at the heavyweight champion present in the audience. "If you're a real fighter, fight me outside a cage and without a referee. I don't think we need all this for a fight."
Maxvil stood with his arms outstretched, a smirk over his face. He said something. It didn't reach Hitryel.
The crowd went wild, cheers and yells going around.
"That's absolutely wild," said the bald commentator. "Hystryk calling out Kartur? Where are we?"
"Hystryk is not a very big-muscled guy," said the blue-suited commentator. "I don't think he can even make heavyweight. But the crowd sure wants to see this fight take place."
All eyes were on Filep.
"It seems the fans actually want this fight to happen," Filep spoke into a mic of his own. "But there are rules and regulations for a professional brawl. I cannot just put two random brawlers together in the cage. Hitryel versus Maxvil just doesn't click together."
The crowd started booing.
Filep smirked. "However, I think we can make this a 'special' fight. If Hitryel wants a title fight, he has to somehow make it up to heavyweight. But if he agrees to fight Maxvil WITHOUT the title on the line, we can maybe make this matchup work—"
"Deal," Hitryel said flatly. "I don't fight for these titles. Smoke them! I just want to fight the best."
The crowd cheered loudly.
Filep's jaw loosened. "Are you…sure?"
'Soon.' Hitryel thought as he kept his eyes nailed to the smiling Maxvil. 'Very soon.'
"Is this a confirmation?" said the bald commentator. "Are we going to have Hitryel versus Maxvil?"
"There's no way!" said the blue-suited commentator. "This is MADNESS!"
###
Benji's face paled as he turned toward Ryuzio. "If Hitryel versus Maxvil happens…then forget about the biggest fight of the decade…it'll probably be the biggest fight in the entire half-a-century to come."
Ryuzio stared at the champ guy. "He really can fight."
"WHAT?" Benji said, utterly baffled. "Of course he can fight! What do you even mean?"
"What after this?" Ryuzio said to Tryst. "I'm getting hungry AND sleepy."
Tryst smiled. "No need to worry. I got you."
Ryuzio nodded with smile. Then he turned to Benji. "Let's do what we came here for, Ben."
Benji gulped. "R-Right…"
"Do you really think I'll let you do something as stupid as invading the privacy of a brawler INSIDE an arena?" Tryst asked.
Ryuzio shrugged. "Well…what're you gonna do about it?" With that, he jumped over to the back row, making his way to the hallway.
Tryst sighed as he lowered the hand with which he was reaching for Ryuzio. "That fire of his will end up burning him someday."