It didn't take long for both fighters to step inside the cage.

Thami Zulu moved with quiet focus, his eyes fixed on the floor, while Chase Dunham carried himself with a loose confidence that bordered on cocky.

The announcer's voice filled the arena, formally introducing them one by one, before stepping back to let the referee take over.

The referee signaled them to the center and held his hands out, making sure both men were listening. "You know the rules," he said firmly. "Protect yourselves at all times, listen to my commands at all times. Touch gloves if you want, and step back."

Chase extended his hand with a smirk.

Thami hesitated for only a second before tapping it, then turned without a word.

Damon leaned forward in his seat, watching carefully.

This fight wasn't just another bout on the card, it was a test of two men shaped under the same roof, forged by the same coach.

And Damon was curious to see which version of Chase would show up tonight, the flashy risk-taker, or the dangerous finisher who had caught his attention before, or maybe even both.

The referee stepped back and signaled for the start. The bell rang, and the atmosphere inside the arena shifted instantly.

Thami Zulu came out exactly as expected.

He sprinted forward in a straight line, no hesitation, swinging wide hooks from both sides.

His chin was high, his stance unorthodox, but the sheer aggression poured out like a storm.

His first right hand whistled through the air, followed by a looping left that forced Chase to retreat.

Chase grinned as he circled back, arms loose at his sides.

He leaned off the center line, hands dropping, as if inviting Zulu to throw more.

The crowd responded immediately, buzzing with every wild exchange.

Zulu didn't stop.

He kept pouring forward with a reckless barrage, his hooks smacking off Chase's guard and shoulders.

Even when he missed, the pace stayed high.

He shoved into the clinch, head pressing into Chase's chest, and threw short uppercuts from impossible angles.

Damon smirked at the sight, it was messy, but dangerous. Fighters like that could overwhelm you if you tried to match them clean.

Chase didn't fight the clinch. Instead, he slipped out with a sudden spin, breaking free and immediately launching a spinning back kick.

The crowd roared as the strike skimmed Zulu's ribs. It didn't land clean, but it was flashy enough to get a reaction.

Chase kept moving, bouncing on his feet, switching stances, and throwing feints that made it impossible to predict what he would do next.

Zulu rushed again, eating a jab on the way in but swinging back with a looping right that cracked against Chase's guard.

Chase answered with a side kick, then a flying knee attempt out of nowhere.

Zulu ducked under it, grabbed him around the waist, and drove him into the fence.

The clash of styles was immediate, Zulu's awkward, grinding pressure against Chase's chaotic unpredictability.

On the cage, Zulu peppered body shots and smothered Chase's movement.

Chase tried to slip out again, but Zulu's raw strength kept him pinned.

He muscled a shoulder into Chase's chin, forcing him to arch awkwardly, and dug punches into the ribs.

Chase, instead of panicking, lifted one knee high and faked a turn.

In a flash, he threw a no-look elbow over the top, clipping Zulu's temple.

The strike forced Zulu to loosen his grip, and Chase spun away with another flashy kick attempt.

Even when he missed, the deception kept Zulu second-guessing.

The crowd was split, half cheering for the relentless brawling of Zulu, half reacting to Chase's circus-like tricks.

Damon watched closely, noting the danger on both sides.

Zulu's gas tank was a question mark, fighters who fought like this rarely lasted three rounds.

But Chase's tendency to play around could easily get him caught.

Every second felt volatile. Zulu kept storming forward, swinging like a man trying to break through a wall, while Chase turned the fight into a puzzle of spins, feints, and unpredictable strikes.

And this was just the first two minutes.

Zulu brushed himself off and circled back to the center, grinning like the knockdown didn't matter.

His hands stayed loose, switching from orthodox to southpaw with no warning, feinting little shoulder bumps and half-switch kicks that looked like they had no business landing, but always seemed like they could.

Chase, on the other hand, was already putting on the show.

He tapped his chest, flicked a jab that was nowhere near Zulu, then shuffled in with a hop-step switch kick that stopped halfway into a side teep.

The watchers "oohed" at the motion, but Zulu didn't blink. He shot forward with a naked left hook, the kind you'd never teach in a gym, and it smacked Chase right across the cheek.

Chase stumbled, then laughed, shaking his head like he enjoyed it. "Okay," he mouthed, before shifting gears.

He started whipping out combinations in odd rhythms, jab-jab-pause-cross, then a spinning elbow that came out of nowhere.

He wasn't fighting on pure fundamentals, he was making Zulu guess at every move.

Zulu didn't guess. He just swung back, arms wide, hammering body shots and winging overhands that made the cage rattle when they missed.

When they landed, Chase's head snapped but he didn't fold.

The two men clashed in the middle.

Zulu threw a switch knee, ugly and raw, but it crushed Chase's ribs and made him backpedal.

Chase fired back with a spinning back kick, catching Zulu in the stomach. The crowd erupted as both fighters shouted at each other and stepped back in.

Damon leaned forward in his seat. He'd heard all the talk about Chase, but this was the first time he was seeing him operate under fire.

Flashy or not, there was something deliberate behind his work.

When he turned serious, when the grin fell and his eyes narrowed, his timing got sharper. Every feint had weight.

Every spin wasn't wasted. He wasn't just a clown; he was baiting guys into swinging big so he could punish them.

Zulu blitzed forward, swinging both arms like clubs.

Chase ducked under, pivoted, and ripped a clean uppercut that cracked Zulu's head back.

He didn't stop there, he chained it into a spinning elbow that sliced across Zulu's temple.

Zulu staggered, still throwing, but Chase smirked and slipped each shot like he knew what was coming.

The round had turned from a wild brawl into a highlight reel. Zulu's chaos was dangerous, but Chase's deception, flash into precision, was starting to take over.

The bell saved Zulu as he ate another hard right hand at the horn.

He grinned, blood trickling down his cheek, and walked to his corner like nothing had happened.

Chase, calm now, tapped his gloves together and nodded, like he'd only just warmed up.

Damon folded his arms, his eyes locked on Chase. "Alright," he muttered under his breath. "Now I see it."