LGHTNOVELBOOK Chapter 591: Finals
The referee stood between them.
"Ready?"
He turned to the other side. "Ready?"
"FIGHT!"
The horn sounded, and the crowd inside Singapore Indoor Stadium roared to life.
"And it is on!" the lead commentator said. "Live here in Singapore for the World Middleweight Final! For those of you watching from the U.S.—welcome to the show, and hope you brewed some coffee."
"Yeah, it's past 2 AM back home, but I don't think anyone's sleeping through this," another replied. "Joren Edlen versus Anatyr Tolkov. America versus Russia. Grappling engine versus silent striker. Let's go."
The fighters met near the center. Edlen kept his stance low, bouncing lightly, head off-center, right hand tight near his chin. Tolkov stood upright, almost still, eyes locked onto Edlen, waiting.
Edlen fired a jab immediately. Tolkov didn't bite. Another jab—this time a level change came behind it. Tolkov backed off just enough.
"Joren already doing what he does best—touch, feint, push pace," the color commentator said. "He's reading reactions. Trying to break Tolkov's rhythm early."
Edlen stepped in with a triple jab—first two touched the guard, the third shifted the angle. He faked the shot and went to the body with a left hook.
Tolkov stepped back, trying to time the counter, but Edlen was gone before it came.
"See, that's what's scary," said the third voice. "Tolkov wants to land something clean, but Edlen's not giving him anything static. His movement is too efficient."
One minute in, and Edlen shot for a clean double leg—timed behind a low kick. He drove through, lifted, and dumped Tolkov with force into the center of the mat.
"Beautiful timing! That's vintage Edlen!" the commentary roared.
Tolkov tried to build a frame, but Edlen quickly passed into half guard, flattening him out. Short elbows followed—clean, sharp, no wasted motion.
"Look how tight he stays. No space. He doesn't hunt subs—he drowns you."
Tolkov covered up and shrimped to the fence. Edlen didn't let him sit up, hooking the leg and dragging him flat again.
"He just resets every time you think you're safe," one analyst said. "And he does it with zero panic. Zero overexertion."
Edlen landed two stiff elbows to the ribs and then slid his forearm across Tolkov's neck.
Tolkov stayed calm, no signs of panic—but no answers either.
By the end of the round, Edlen had controlled over four minutes on the ground, landing consistent shots.
.
.
.
[]Round 2[]
The horn sounded and both men stood quickly. Edlen didn't sit between rounds. He never did.
Tolkov came out with a more assertive posture. He wasn't chasing, but his stance had shifted. More bounce in his feet. He was adapting.
"Round two underway," the lead commentator called. "And already I'm seeing adjustments from the Russian. Tolkov's not standing as flat. He's showing a little more movement."
"Yeah, and he needs to," the analyst added. "Round one was all Edlen. Control, pressure, clean shots. But Tolkov's a veteran. You don't make it this far without knowing how to adapt under fire."
Edlen stepped in early with a low kick—part of the same rhythm he used in round one.
This time, Tolkov checked it.
Then answered with a sharp counter right hand that touched Edlen's cheek.
"OHH! First clean shot landed by Tolkov!"
Edlen circled out immediately, composure untouched, but the pace shifted.
Tolkov stepped in behind a tight combination—jab, rear uppercut, and a body hook that clipped Edlen's ribs. Then he stopped. Reset. Didn't chase.
"That's smart," the commentator said. "No need to follow him to the fence. He's trying to make Edlen work now."
Edlen fired a double jab and feinted another shot, but Tolkov didn't bite this time. He slid back and countered with a straight right down the pipe, landing clean again.
Edlen smiled slightly and nodded, like he appreciated the answer.
Two minutes in, and Tolkov was defending the takedown feints better. He kept his hips lower, hands tighter, and he started timing his own entries—cutting angles with short lateral steps, looking to catch Edlen moving sideways.
But Joren wasn't just one gear.
He reset and began upping the feint rate—jab to the head, fake the level change, spin the other way and cut an angle off Tolkov's blind side. Then he struck.
Left hand to the body, shot behind it, and this time he got in deep again. Tolkov tried to defend, sprawling harder than before.
But Edlen chained the attempt.
He spun off the fence and ran him into the center, finally lifting and planting him again.
"AND HE GETS IT!" the play-by-play shouted. "That is just textbook chain wrestling!"
Tolkov framed and tried to sit up, but Edlen had already landed two short elbows. He passed the guard into half and squeezed pressure down like a vice.
Tolkov didn't stay there long—he fought to his knees and managed to scramble, breaking free with less than a minute left. He threw a body shot and a stiff jab as they reset on the feet.
Edlen circled calmly, hands up, breathing steady.
The round ended with both men staring at each other—mutual respect, no panic, no wild flurry.
"Much better round from Tolkov," one commentator said. "He made adjustments, landed clean, defended better. But Edlen… he's just so good at not letting momentum swing."
"I've got it 2–0 Edlen," the analyst added. "But this one's heating up. Tolkov's not done."
Damon smiled as he watched from the couch, the light from the TV flickering across his face.
This was a good match.
Better than expected.
Joren Edlen had started strong—just like Damon thought he would. Constant pressure, smart entries, clean takedowns. But what impressed him was how Tolkov adjusted in the second round. The Russian was reading better now, moving with intent, slipping shots, and returning fire.
Still… it wasn't enough.
By the end of round two, Joren had regained control.
He worked the cage perfectly. Didn't let Tolkov breathe. Mixed in short body shots with level changes, then ran him into the mat with clean mechanics.
Round two may have started with Tolkov pushing back, but Joren had closed it strong. Probably stole the round by finishing on top with control and damage.
Damon leaned back.
Yeah. 2–0.