***
Match Type
Accepted Verbal Submission
Victory Conditions
Victory is achieved when the loser verbally admits surrender and the winner accepts it.
***
Match Type
Accepted Verbal Submission
Victory Conditions
Victory is achieved when the loser verbally admits surrender and the winner accepts it.
Rules
• Fight shall occur in a ring without corners or ropes.
• Striking only, no submissions (apart from anything stated below) or slams.
• If opponent is knocked off outside, they must return to the ring and allow their opponent to perform any move they want on them (submissions, throws and slams are allowed in this stage) before resuming the match properly.
• If an opponent gets knocked out, they must suffer a forced orgasm penalty.
• Striking only, no submissions (apart from anything stated below) or slams.
• If opponent is knocked off outside, they must return to the ring and allow their opponent to perform any move they want on them (submissions, throws and slams are allowed in this stage) before resuming the match properly.
• If an opponent gets knocked out, they must suffer a forced orgasm penalty.
Tomás rolled his shoulders, ignoring the sharp ache that rippled through his bruised muscles. The neon lights of the LAW Arena in Tokyo cast a garish glow over the ring, their intensity matching the heat seething in his gut. He had fought hurt before. He had fought against the odds. But this? This was different. This was something else entirely.
He flexed his fingers, inhaling deeply through his nose as the weight of his circumstances pressed against his ribs. Every movement sent a reminder of the pre-match ambush by the hands of that woman—his body an unwilling canvas of bruises, each mark a testament to the cowardice of LAW’s management. This wasn’t just about the soreness in his limbs or the dull throb along his ribs. This was about something far bigger—something rotten at the heart of LAW itself, and everyone knew it.
It had become a pattern, a sick joke that management played at his expense. They never lined up battles that suited him, never granted him an opponent that let his Muay Thai skills flourish. Instead, they threw him into spectacles designed to grind him down, to humiliate him. They wanted to watch him fail, wanted to push him past his limits until there was nothing left but exhaustion and frustration. And the worst part? They didn’t even have the guts to do it cleanly.
A pre-match assault in the locker room? Of course, they orchestrated that. LAW wasn’t just out to stack the deck; they wanted to rig the entire damn game. He had his suspicions about who pulled the strings, but in the end, it didn’t matter. His body still bore the evidence—a welt along his left shoulder, the residual stiffness in his leg. They thought this would break him. They thought he would falter before the fight had even begun. They thought he would give in.
But Tomás wasn’t that easy to kill. Not even other gangs could do so.
He stood in the center of the ring, rolling his neck, eyes fixed on the entrance ramp. The crowd rumbled around him, some cheering, some jeering, but he shut out the noise. He had more important things to focus on—like the woman he was about to face.
Cleo Hulbury. The so-called Paragon of Passion.
Another mismatch by design. A fighter who thrived in LAW’s rigged system. Tall, fast, and methodical—everything that made for an infuriating opponent. He knew exactly what kind of fighter she was, what kind of cruelty she thrived on. This wasn’t just about technique. This was about psychology, about imposing dominance. She wasn’t just here to win. She was here to break people.
And that was the problem. This wasn’t his fight. Not really. A straight kickboxing match? A cage fight? He could handle that. But LAW had chosen an Accepted Verbal Submission match. He had to get her to quit. To make her surrender. That was the conditions of victory that didn’t come from just being tougher or faster. It came from breaking someone’s spirit. And that was what LAW wanted—to make a show of how far they could push him. How much he could endure before he snapped.
His lips curled into a slight smirk. They thought they were testing his limits, but they had no idea who they were dealing with. Pain was an old friend. Resilience was in his bones. If they thought a little extra suffering would make him bend, they were sorely mistaken.
He could hear the faint whispers of the commentary team in the background, feeding the narrative that LAW wanted to spin. They would talk about Cleo’s precision, about how this match played into her strengths. They hyped her up as if this were already decided as if he were nothing more than another stepping stone in her ascent.
But they were wrong.
He exhaled, his hazel eyes narrowing. Fine. If this was the game, he would play it. But he wouldn’t break. Not for LAW. Not for the crowd. And not for Cleo.
The arena darkened for the next entrance. The air thickened with anticipation. He tightened his taped fists. Whatever happened next, he was ready.
