“You telegraph your joy,” Jade said quietly. “That’s your flaw. You love fighting more than winning.”
Round Three: Grit
“Best two out of three next year?” she asked, slapping Jade’s palm.
She changed tempo mid-sentence—a feint, a drop, a rising knee that caught Jade in the sternum. First blood, split lip. The crowd roared. Jade Imohara Vs Nikki Knowlesl BEST
Nikki blocked the first two. The third wrapped around her staff and pulled .
“Best,” Jade said, “isn’t about never losing. It’s about getting back up.”
Jade fought like deep water. She absorbed. Redirected. Waited. “You telegraph your joy,” Jade said quietly
Nikki stared at the offered hand. The crowd held its breath.
The arena hummed with a voltage that had nothing to do with the flickering neon signs overhead. It was the charge of two legacies finally colliding.
On the right, Nikki Knowlesl spun her staff in a dazzling blur, grinning at the crowd. She wore her confidence like a second skin—scarred knuckles, mismatched boots, a championship belt slung over one shoulder that she hadn’t earned yet but had already claimed with her mouth. She changed tempo mid-sentence—a feint, a drop, a
Jade closed the distance in a heartbeat. Palm strike to the jaw. Elbow to the collarbone. Knee to the solar plexus. Each blow landed with surgical placement—not to kill, but to dismantle.
By now, both bled. Nikki’s left eye was swelling. Jade’s ribs had a hairline crack—she’d know tomorrow, but tonight she ignored it.
Jade’s eyes opened. Pale silver. “We’re here to find out who ‘BEST’ actually means.”
She flicked her wrist. The sickle-chain released Nikki’s staff, and before Nikki could reset, Jade’s forehead met her nose in a headbutt so clean it drew applause from the judges.