Julian circled, feinting with his hands. Elena stood perfectly still, her face an unreadable mask. Julian shot in low, diving for a complex De La Riva guard, intending to tangle her legs and sweep her.

As Julian’s back hit the mat and his legs reached up like tentacles to snare her, Elena moved with a terrifying, fluid violence. She didn't try to back away from his guard. She dove directly into the fire.

With a rapid stutter-step, she pinned his left knee to the canvas with her shin, killing his hip mobility. Julian’s eyes widened; she had nullified his guard in half a second. He reached up to push her away, but Elena was already descending.

She bypassed his defenses completely, dropping her chest heavily onto his face and neck—a devastating pressure pass. Before Julian could frame his arms to create space, Elena's left arm threaded deep behind his neck.

Julian panicked, realizing too late what was happening. He tried to bridge, to buck her off, but her weight was distributed perfectly, heavy and immovable.

Elena slid her right hand inside the sleeve of her own left arm, forming a vicious vice grip around Julian’s throat. It was an Ezekiel Choke, applied from the top mount with flawless, ruthless efficiency.

She drove her wrists down into his carotid arteries. Julian thrashed wildly, his legs kicking the air. His face turned a deep, alarming shade of purple in seconds. He tried to claw at her arms, but the grip was like cast iron.

Darkness crept into the edges of Julian's vision. He slapped the mat desperately before going limp.

Elena let go, standing up fluidly as Julian gasped, coughing violently, dragging himself backward away from her like a frightened animal.

Two champions down. Both utterly dismantled. Both completely humiliated.

Jaxson Reyes, the young prodigy, was trembling. It wasn't just anger anymore; it was genuine fear. The natural order of his universe had been shattered in less than forty seconds. The woman in the white belt hadn't even broken a sweat. She was breathing normally, her eyes locked onto him.

"You're up," Elena said softly.

Jaxson let out a feral roar, abandoning all pretense of technique. He wanted to hurt her. He charged forward, throwing a wild, illegal, closed-fist overhand right—a strike disguised as a collar tie, aiming straight for her jaw.

It was a street-brawl move, desperate and dangerous.

Elena’s eyes tracked the strike. She didn't flinch. She simply slipped her head a fraction of an inch to the left. The heavy fist grazed the air next to her ear.

Simultaneously, Elena ducked under his extended arm and stepped deeply behind him. She wrapped her arms around his waist, locking her hands together in a tight, inescapable Gable grip.