Even so, despite the frustration and helplessness written clearly across Elliot Graves' face after the knockdown, Sergei Volkov shows no panic at all.

The Russian coach does not shout for Elliot to rise, does not slam the apron. He does not bark desperate instructions across the ring like most trainers would after seeing their fighter dropped in front of thousands of people.

Volkov simply watches him calmly, almost as if silently reminding Elliot that the situation is still far from hopeless.

"That's not enough to stop you, Elliot…"

No words leave his mouth, but Elliot understands the message immediately.

At the count of five, he plants one glove against his knee and rises steadily back to his feet. There is no dramatic struggle in the motion, no visible wobble severe enough to alarm the referee or the audience.

Still, the accumulated damage remains inside him. His balance has not fully stabilized yet, and he can feel the lingering buzz behind his eyes while trying to steady his breathing and sharpen his focus enough to compensate for it.

The referee steps closer once the count reaches eight.

"You good to continue?"

Elliot immediately raises both gloves.

"Yeah," he answers firmly. "I'm good."

And this is precisely what world-level boxing looks like. Fighters at this level do not collapse easily. They do not mentally unravel after one knockdown, especially not someone like Elliot Graves.

"And Graves gets right back up after the count! That's championship-level composure right there!"

"Yeah, the knockdown was clean, but he doesn't look disoriented. You can already see him trying to reset himself mentally."

"And honestly, he has to. Because this fight has become psychologically exhausting. Every exchange with Shimamura feels uncomfortable right now."

"But this is still a world-class contender we're talking about! Elliot Graves has fought elite competition for years. One knockdown isn't enough to make somebody like this fold."

More importantly, beyond the frustration of never fully connecting cleanly against Shimamura, Elliot still understands the broader reality of the fight.

He has controlled most of the match so far. Five rounds of pressure, ring control, cleaner volume, cleaner optics. Even if this round six now clearly belongs to Shimamura because of the knockdown, Elliot knows he is still ahead on points by a comfortable margin.

And Shimamura clearly understands the same thing. The moment the referee waves the fight back on, Shimamura immediately starts pressing forward with noticeably more initiative than before.

For the first time tonight, he is not simply reacting and countering from defensive positions anymore. He begins attacking.

Even with those same loose drunken steps and awkward posture, he starts trying to force exchanges himself.

"Oh, now Shimamura's the one walking him down!"

"And that's the first real sign tonight that he smells blood after the knockdown!"

"But look at him! The intensity is rising, and somehow he still moves like he's half-disoriented out there!"

"Don't let that drunken rhythm fool you, though! Every time Graves thinks Shimamura is off-balance, he gets punished for stepping in carelessly!"

For now, Elliot no longer cares about the bizarre rhythm. He tightens his guard and focuses purely on surviving long enough for his body to fully stabilize again.

Shimamura steps in first with a light left hand touching Elliot's guard almost experimentally.

Tap.

Then the right arm swings heavily toward Elliot's left side.

Dug.

Neither punches lands clean. Elliot still reads the trajectory properly, absorbs both impacts behind disciplined guard placement, and immediately takes one step backward to recreate distance.

Shimamura continues advancing, and two loose one-twos fly out from mid-range.

Again, Elliot blocks them both.

Dug. Dug.

Then Shimamura suddenly swings his right arm toward the side once more.

Elliot reads it immediately, dropping his left guard to intercept the punch while preparing a counter at the same time.

Then a sharp lead hook from Elliot fires back.

"And Graves fires right back!"

"That's a good sign for him mentally after the knockdown!"

But Shimamura leans his torso backward before swinging the motion toward the right side, and suddenly his right hand whips upward again from below.

Low first. Then high.

Thud! Dsh!

Both punches land cleanly. And the arena erupts instantly.

"OHHH! Graves gets clipped again!"

"And those shots landed much cleaner than they looked initially!"

"That second punch especially might've caught him right behind the ear!"

"But somehow Graves is still standing!"

And indeed, Elliot truly does remain standing. His guard tightens immediately afterward while absorbing Shimamura's follow-up pressure against his forearms and gloves.

Dug. Dug. Dug.

Dug. Dug. Thud! Dug.

But the deeper the exchange continues, the stranger something starts feeling to him. Shimamura keeps attacking, yet his offense still looks oddly loose. His arms swing almost like ropes rather than proper punches fired with snapping mechanics.

There is no explosive rotation behind them. No stable footing anchoring the shots into the canvas. No compact combinations designed to maximize destructive power.

And perhaps most importantly, the punches remain readable, lacking the speed or sharpness necessary to truly make Elliot lose track of them.

Elliot calmly adjusts his guard placement, shifts angles, blocks nearly everything cleanly, and the realization slowly begins forming inside his head.

Why is he attacking like this?

Is this another bait?

Is Shimamura trying to lure him into initiating first again?

Elliot tests the idea carefully, snappy a jab out. But he retracts it immediately instead of committing fully.

Shimamura reacts, his torso sways loosely before his right hand swings upward from below for another counter.

But this time, Elliot's guard remains perfectly disciplined. 𝒻𝑟ℯℯ𝑤𝑒𝑏𝑛𝘰𝓋𝑒𝓁.𝒸𝑜𝘮

Dug!

The punch crashes harmlessly against his gloves.

Shimamura keeps pressing regardless, occasionally shifting angle through those sloppy sideways steps while bending at the waist before swinging another upward shot.

The motion resembles a rope being flung upward more than a proper uppercut.

And yet…

Fshh!

The punch still slips awkwardly through the middle of Elliot's guard, redirected slightly left before grazing across the side of his face.

Shimamura follows with a straight cross down the middle immediately afterward. But Elliot blocks it cleanly this time before taking several steps backward.

"And somehow that ugly little uppercut STILL sneaks through the guard!"

"I swear, nothing Shimamura throws looks technically correct, and yet Elliot keeps getting clipped by pieces of it!"

"But that's better from Graves afterward! Good discipline there, blocks the follow-up cross clean and immediately creates distance again!"

And there, Elliot realizes his legs are back beneath him now. His balance has stabilized. He's ready to fight properly again.

But strangely enough, he does not rush forward immediately after realizing that. Because another realization arrives first.

Shimamura's defense may be insane and monstrous. His reactions may be abnormal. But once he actually takes initiative offensively instead of countering, none of the punches truly feel dangerous.

There is no sharpness to the combinations, no layered setup, no heavy rotational mechanics threatening to end the fight instantly.

For all the bizarre genius behind Shimamura's defensive style, his offense inside this drunken rhythm suddenly feels almost crude by comparison.

"It feels almost… he's still at national level."

Despite that, Elliot does not rush with such conclusion. He refuses to underestimate Shimamura too early, especially after everything that already happened tonight.

Instead, he uses the remaining time in the round to confirm the theory properly.