CHAPTER 782: CHAPTER 782: CLOSING THE BRACKET

A day hadn’t passed before it was time to finalize the picks. In the lightweight division, the bracket was unusually lopsided, every fighter advancing was from Damon’s team.

To keep the process fair, the matchups were decided through a blind draw handled by the production crew.

Each fighter’s name was written on a card, placed into a covered bowl, and then drawn by one of the show’s athletic commission officials.

The fighters had no say, and Damon didn’t touch the process, ensuring there was no hint of bias.

The middleweight side was still mixed between teams, and the structure for their bracket remained unchanged.

The fighters and coaches gathered in the gym before heading upstairs, where the match announcements would take place.

The sound of boots on the stairs grew louder until Maine Ronan walked in, holding a small clipboard.

He carried himself with the kind of energy that filled the room instantly.

"Alright, gentlemen," Ronan began, his tone direct and commanding, "we’re heading upstairs to close this thing out. This is it, semi-final matchups. Two more wins, and you’re looking at the finale. Lose here, and you’re packing your bags."

He scanned the room, locking eyes with fighters from both sides. "This is the part where the pressure makes diamonds or breaks you. No excuses, no complaints, these picks are locked, and the matchups are set. Remember, nobody cares about the last fight, nobody cares about your record. What matters is who leaves with their hand raised next."

Ronan tapped the clipboard lightly against his palm. "Let’s move. The cameras are ready, the fans are watching, and the semi-finals start now."

The four lightweights stood together near the end of the mat, each with their team shirts on but a different kind of tension in the air.

They had been sparring partners for weeks, cheering each other on in the first round.

Now, with Ivan’s entire lightweight roster eliminated, they were the only ones left in the division, and that meant they had to turn on each other.

The production crew had already set up the small table at the center of the gym.

On it sat a large, polished wooden bowl with a black cloth draped over the top. Inside were four folded cards, each bearing a name.

The fighters would draw one at a time to see who they’d face. The names were written twice, once as the "first fighter," once as the "opponent"—so no one could guess matchups by process of elimination.

An athletic commission official, a stocky man in a navy blazer, stood behind the table.

His tone was professional, his hands placed neatly on the rim of the bowl. "We’ll draw in two steps. First, we pull the first fighter for Match One. Then, we pull their opponent. Then we repeat for Match Two. No redraws, no changes. This is final."

The crew brought the cameras closer, catching every face.

Ronan stood just off to the side, grinning like this was his favorite part of the week. "Alright, boys," he said, voice carrying like an announcer hyping a pay-per-view, "the training’s over for now. We’re about to find out who’s got to take a teammate’s dream away."

Ronny McGregor was called up first.

The Irishman stepped to the bowl, reached under the cloth, and shuffled the cards with exaggerated care before pulling one out.

He unfolded it, glanced down, and the official took it to read aloud.

"Match One, Ronny McGregor."

Ronny smirked and stepped back, arms crossed, the faintest flicker of competitiveness in his eyes.

Next up was the draw for his opponent. Ayo Fasusi stepped forward this time, dipping his big hands into the bowl.

He fished around before pulling a card and handing it over.

"Facing Ronny McGregor... Ayo Fasusi."

The gym gave a mix of groans and chuckles. Ayo laughed under his breath, giving Ronny a quick nod.

Neither man had any bad blood, but it was clear both already wanted the bragging rights.

That left Max Taylor and Kenji Sato for Match Two, but the process still had to be done officially. Max walked up, pulled a card, and the official held it up.

"Match Two, Max Taylor."

Kenji didn’t even bother with theatrics when it was his turn. He pulled the last card without looking.

"And his opponent... Kenji Sato."

The official placed the empty bowl aside while Ronan stepped forward. "There it is. Two teammate-vs-teammate wars to decide who makes it to the final. No excuses now, you’ve all trained together, you all know each other’s strengths and weaknesses. This is about who can show up under the lights and handle the pressure. Congratulations, gentlemen... or condolences, depending how you look at it."

The four lightweights stood in a loose square, each pair sizing the other up, not with hostility, but with the quiet calculation of men who now had to treat friends like opponents.

The air felt heavier, and the cameras loved every second of it.

Ronan stepped away from the lightweight group and clapped his hands, looking over at the middleweights.

"Alright, since we switched up the lightweights’ draw, it wouldn’t be fair to keep the middleweight bracket the same old way. And I’m not talking about the boring ’coaches pick’ or the usual ’pull a name out of a hat.’ Let’s make it interesting."

He gestured toward a crew member, who wheeled out a small stand with a digital screen built into the top.

On it, four color-coded cards spun in a slow animation, one for each middleweight fighter. "This is the spin board. Totally random. I hit the button, it’ll stop on a name. First spin decides Fighter A for Match One. Second spin decides their opponent. Then we reset for the second match. No tricks, no swaps. It’s locked in."

The fighters leaned in a little, curious. The beeping and whirring as the screen cycled through names added a game-show feel.

"Middleweights, you’re up," Ronan said, grinning like he was about to hand out lottery numbers. "Let’s see who’s getting punched in the face by a teammate this week."