MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 792

Chapter 792: Chapter 792: Brutality

Chase felt the snap of his right hand connecting flush on Zulu’s chin, the kind of shot that jolted straight through the knuckles.

Zulu’s legs buckled, his stance collapsing for a moment, his arms lifting high out of instinct rather than control. Chase’s eyes lit up instantly.

He didn’t pause. He surged forward, pouring on strikes, short hooks ripping around the guard, uppercuts sneaking straight up the middle.

Every thud echoed, each punch driving Zulu further back until his shoulders hit the fence.

Zulu tried to fire back, swinging a wide right, but it was slow, his balance already broken.

Chase ducked under and came back with a crushing knee up the middle. It smashed into Zulu’s jaw, snapping his head back violently.

Zulu dropped to a knee, dazed, but Chase gave him no space. He yanked Zulu’s head down into the clinch, framing his arms tight, and hammered another knee straight into the skull.

The sound was sharp, dull bone against bone.

Zulu’s legs gave way completely this time. He slumped sideways to the canvas, eyes glassy, his guard falling apart.

Chase loomed over him, fists ready, but as Zulu rolled to his side limp, the referee dove in.

Chase froze, his chest pumping, his gloves hovering above Zulu’s head. One more second and the hammerfists would’ve fallen. But the fight was over.

The ref pulled Chase back, waving his arms. Zulu stayed down, blinking, blood running from his lip, his body barely responding.

Chase raised both hands, breathing heavy, sweat dripping off his chin. His face was bruised, his ribs red from the earlier shots, but he had done it. He finished Zulu brutally, with the kind of knee that ended debates.

The cage was quiet except for the sound of their breathing, the shuffle of medics rushing in.

Zulu, tough as he was, had been broken. And Chase, for all his flash and deception, had proven that when it mattered, he could end a fight violently and without hesitation.

Chase didn’t glance back. He didn’t raise a hand to Zulu, didn’t pause to see if the man was alright.

Instead, he strutted across the cage, arms spread wide, shouting his own name as if the fight was already written into history.

The referee and medics rushed past him, kneeling beside Zulu, who lay flat, clutching at the canvas, his body twitching from the violent whiplash of the strike.

That knee was different. It wasn’t just a strike, it was a collision.

Chase had pulled Zulu’s head down while firing the knee upward with everything in his hips, a violent meeting point where skull and bone clashed in full force.

The sound itself was sickening, a hollow crack that seemed to echo longer than it should have.

Imagine someone yanking your head toward their rising knee, both forces meeting at the center.

That was the brutality of it, an impact designed to break will, not just win fights.

The doctors worked quickly, flashing lights in Zulu’s eyes, checking reflexes, whispering words to see if he responded. Chase didn’t stop celebrating.

He climbed the cage, pounding his chest, yelling to the cameras.

Where Ronny McGregor once showed compassion, pulling Ayo to his feet after their clash, Chase showed none.

Zulu’s corner stood frozen, unsure whether to step in or trust the medics.

His body eventually stilled, his chest heaving as oxygen was brought to him.

The arena went quiet around the scene, the silence heavy, filled with the weight of the strike’s brutality.

And still, Chase celebrated like a man untouched by consequence.

The referee finally waved Chase over, pulling him toward the center while Zulu was being helped to a stool by the medics.

Both men stood side by side, though one was broken and the other still pulsing with adrenaline.

The referee gripped their wrists as the announcer stepped in with the mic. His voice carried across the cage, steady, practiced.

“Ladies and gentlemen, referee stoppage at four minutes, thirty-six seconds of round two. Declaring the winner by knockout…”

He raised Chase’s hand.

“Chase Dunham!”

Chase ripped his arm free and threw both fists into the air, screaming as if the cage itself belonged to him.

His chest heaved, his face lit with wild triumph, and he pounded his own heart before pointing down at Zulu, who sat still being examined.

There was no handshake. No glance back. Just Chase basking in his victory while the medics continued to work on the man he had just put down.

Seeing Chase get his hand raised meant one thing, he was locked into the final.

Damon leaned back in his seat, letting the noise of the crowd fade while his mind moved to the next fight.

José Alvarez and Eric Brunner were not too far for their clash, and whichever one won would meet Chase in the bracket final.

Damon ran the possibilities in his head. Chase had shown a lot tonight, he loved feints, fakes, and playing to the crowd, but buried under the showboating were some well-timed setups.

He also had flashes of grappling. Nothing impressive by Damon’s standard, but enough to matter if the other man wasn’t sharp on the ground.

José Alvarez was pure danger on the feet. Crisp boxing, punishing kicks, and knockout power in either hand.

Against a fighter like Chase, Damon could picture him shutting down the antics with clean shots down the middle. If it stayed standing, José had the edge.

Brunner, though, wasn’t any different. A grinder with decent grappling defense and some offense, he had a better understanding of the ground than José, and striking that could back it up.

He wouldn’t fall for the tricks. He would drag Chase into a fight that stripped the show away and forced him to survive. On paper, Brunner looked like the tougher matchup.

Damon exhaled. None of it mattered who he wanted. The bracket was set. All he could do was make sure both Alvarez and Brunner walked in prepared, and whoever came out would be sharpened for Chase. That was his role.