[@King Cosmos]

Pain blossomed through his right side as he hit the earth, standing shakily over his fallen foe. As the boy came to a moment later, bat lying at his side, he would see Kasemchai's breaths as now remarkably shallow compared to how deep and controlled they were at the beginning.

Unbelievable.

To think he didn't consider a switch-hitter.

In this game of inches they called fighting.

Just because he'd not laced up gloves?

It was all he could do to tighten his core at the last moment once he'd realized in midair, holding every bit of the tension in his abdominals and serratus that he had naturally produced in his elbow strike. He had no way to evade this blow, no way to dodge it, and was too truly committed to the strike to block. If one could even meaningfully do so.

He had indeed reached far enough to to cleanly strike the batter with real blows, not projections of his own force— and that distance saved him. His adrenaline still pumping wildly through his veins, he knew that even on only one and a half legs, this man's swings were hard as any kick he had ever taken in the ring. So perhaps the baseball bat metaphor had some merit to it after all— though by getting in that close, Kasemchai had done himself another favor. The principles of force generation were universal between all sports— if you're swinging something, be it a kicked leg or a baseball bat, the end is what moves fastest. More acceleration, more force.

If he had kneed from one step further out, he would be the one on the floor, he was sure of it. It would have placed him perfectly into that solid end of the bat's range. Here, thanks to the baseball player stepping [i]into[/i] him and further shortening the distance, Kasemchai's velocity had carried him even further inward, and the swing had slammed home with roughly the [i]center[/i] of the bat. The instant later, his elbow struck true, and ripped consciousness free from his opponent, his grip upon the bat with it. Denying the proper follow-through that very well could have penetrated his tight core anyway, and done potentially catastrophic damage to his ribs.

Even now, the Thai wasn't fully sure of how hard he had been hit, truly. He knew that he was keeping, almost instinctively, his breaths sharp and short. He would definitely have a welt to match the one he had given that leg... And there was a good chance that bruising reached down to the bone, too. Perhaps he had lost a crack in the confusion? He hoped not.

But he was on his feet, and the opponent was on his back. His smile, crossing the line between self-assured and feral, returned to his face in full.

He had won. As he was always going to. That he had come so close to losing was unexpected, but he had claimed the victory that was his from the start all the same. Today was his, and his point had been proven. The fighter's game was one of inches indeed, and he exceeded in utilizing each one.

Even as he left arm gingerly held at his right side, the Thai rose the arm that had given him the win into the air, bronzed fist stark against the azure sky. His within the shadows of the silver locks framing his face, those green eyes looked upon this man with... acknowledgement. That of one who recognized a good effort in the face of an overwhelming victory, even if the true events of the fight were not nearly so one-sided. To Kasemchai, he had merely been caught up in the storm of a destined great. For this man to prove his worth to this degree in the face of it was... commendable.

[color=82ca9d][i]This man..?[/i][/color]

Ah.

[color=82ca9d]"Your name, [i]Farang[/i]."[/color]

He extended a hand to the fallen. The assured victor would only be right to show the sportsmanship as such. The warm ache that had begun to set into his ribcage would see to it that this would be remembered.

[color=82ca9d]"I'd like to know who fought so hard against me."[/color]