MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 800

Chapter 800: Chapter 800: Spectacular Survival

Damon stood up from his chair and clapped his hands, the sound sharp against the quiet of the gym.

Both men had gone through fire. They had shown heart, grit, and the kind of stubbornness that only came out when everything was on the line.

Kenji had been relentless, pushing forward even when rocked, trying to rip victory out of nothing with that desperate armbar. He’d refused to give in, even as Max’s fists crashed down on him.

And Max, fighting with one arm that was clearly compromised, still found a way to adapt, create, and finish.

The way he evaded the second armbar, then immediately switched into a vicious ground-and-pound assault, was spectacular. It was the kind of improvisation Damon respected most.

He clapped again, louder, nodding toward the cage. “Good work, boys,” he muttered under his breath.

Both fighters had given more than technique; they had given themselves.

That was the type of fight that lived in memory, not because it was clean, but because it was raw, ugly, and stubborn to the very end.

Max was helped to his corner, still shaking out his right arm, while Kenji sat on his stool, dazed but upright, his chest heaving. Damon’s eyes moved between them, his respect equal.

They had given him everything he asked for, and maybe more.

This was the semifinal, but to Damon, it had felt like a final of its own.

Max leaned against the fence as his corner rushed in, hands already reaching for his right arm.

One coach grabbed the wrist carefully, rotating it to check for damage. “Talk to me, Max. How bad is it?”

Max winced as the arm was lifted, but he shook his head. “It’s fine. Just feels tight. Needs rest, that’s all.”

Another coach pressed a cold pack gently against the bicep, looking for swelling. “You sure? That armbar was deep, man. Don’t lie to me.”

Max let out a breath, jaw clenched. “I’m not lying. He almost had it, yeah, but he didn’t. It’s sore, but I’m fine. Just let it cool down.”

The coaches exchanged quick looks but didn’t argue. They wrapped the ice tighter against his arm, holding it in place.

Max tapped the fence with his good hand and grinned through the sweat and blood. “I told you, I’m fine. I’ll be ready for the final. Don’t even worry.”

Even as he said it, Damon could see the stiffness in his movements from his seat outside.

Max was stubborn, but the arm had taken damage. Whether it was bruised, strained, or worse, Damon knew he would need every ounce of creativity and toughness to fight through it in the final.

Damon stayed seated as Max’s corner worked the arm, but his mind was already moving forward.

Ronny McGregor.

Ronny wasn’t just another striker, he was one of the sharpest in the house.

His timing, his stubborn chin, and the way he adjusted mid-fight had carried him through wars.

Damon had seen Ronny withstand Ayo’s raw power and come back stronger; he knew the man didn’t fold easily.

Max, meanwhile, had creativity and grit, but now there was the question of that arm. Damon had seen it stiffen, seen how Max tried to mask the pain.

Fighters always said they were fine, but Damon had been around long enough to know the truth often came out once the adrenaline faded.

He leaned forward, eyes narrowing.

Ronny vs. Max was the kind of match that promised fireworks, Ronny’s clean, polished striking against Max’s reckless, spectacular creativity.

A fight where one mistake could decide it all. But only if Max’s arm held up.

Damon exhaled through his nose, thinking. Hopefully Max was right, and it really was just soreness. If it wasn’t, the matchup tilted heavily in Ronny’s favor.

Either way, Damon knew he would have to prepare Max carefully. Against Ronny, there was no room for hesitation.

The referee called both fighters to the center of the cage, his expression stern as he took their wrists in hand.

Max’s chest was still heaving, his right arm hanging looser than he’d probably like, while Kenji’s face showed the wear of the bout, swelling around the eye, a small cut above the brow, and his body bruised from Max’s relentless pressure.

The official raised his voice, clear and final.

“Ladies and gentlemen, referee stoppage, early in round number two, declaring the winner by TKO… Max Taylor!”

The ref lifted Max’s arm high. Max gritted his teeth, forcing a smile, his left glove punching the air in victory while his right arm lagged slightly behind.

Kenji bowed his head once, respectful as always, and turned back toward his corner to be checked by his coaches.

Damon stood outside the cage, clapping slowly, his mind already racing ahead. He had seen Max’s grit and creativity, but also the cracks.

That arm would need attention. Because standing on the other side of the bracket, waiting, was Ronny McGregor, sharp, stubborn, and fresh.

This semifinal was over. The last one loomed next.

Damon stepped into the cage after the announcement, clapping both men on the shoulders. He first turned to Max, giving him a nod and a brief smile.

“You pushed through, even with that arm bothering you. Good work, Max,” he said, his tone firm but approving. “That’s what I mean when I tell you to stay creative in the chaos. You found the finish.”

Then he shifted to Kenji, who stood quietly with his corner. Damon put a hand on his shoulder, looking him in the eye.

“You fought smart, Kenji. That armbar, you almost had it. Most guys would’ve tapped to that. Don’t hang your head. You showed heart, and you reminded everyone you can be dangerous at any second.”

Kenji bowed slightly in acknowledgment, and Damon gave his shoulder one last pat before stepping back.

Both men exited toward the back together, their corners guiding them down the hallway.

Max had ice wrapped around his arm, Kenji with a towel pressed to his swollen cheek.

Damon followed behind with his assistants. The air in the gym shifted again, no more talk about Max and Kenji. The focus now was on the last semifinal.

José Alvarez vs. Theo Brunner.

Damon exhaled slowly. This one would be just as sharp, maybe sharper. A dangerous striker in José against Theo’s grinding mix of pressure and grappling.

The night wasn’t done yet.