MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 801

Chapter 801: Chapter 801: Alvarez vs. Brunner

The cage stood ready once again. The officials cleared the last of the ice and towels from the corners, and the lights fixed back on the tunnel.

First to make the walk was José Alvarez. The Spaniard’s music hit, sharp and rhythmic, the kind of beat that matched his crisp striking style.

He strode out with calm focus, his jaw tight, eyes locked on the cage. No excess gestures, no wasted energy.

He paused once before the steps, bouncing on his toes, then climbed through the cage door.

He circled inside, running his gloves along the fence, then settled into his corner, rolling his shoulders loose.

Across the tunnel, Theo Brunner appeared. His entrance was quieter, almost stoic.

He didn’t waste time with theatrics. His walk was steady, deliberate, his broad frame carrying the weight of someone who had no intention of being outpaced.

He climbed the steps and stepped into the cage, pacing once around before settling opposite José. His eyes never left his opponent.

The referee called them both to the center, his hands raised between them.

“Protect yourselves at all times. Obey my commands at all times. If I say stop, you stop. Clean fight, gentlemen.”

José nodded quickly, gloves up, a slight bounce in his stance already. Theo gave a firm nod, his jaw clenched, hands steady at his waist before raising them.

“Touch gloves if you’d like.”

José extended first, his face calm. Theo lifted his glove, meeting it without hesitation. The touch was quick, professional, no extra gestures.

They returned to their corners, bouncing, pacing, shoulders loose. The cage door clanged shut.

The referee stepped back. The horn echoed.

“Fight!”

Damon leaned forward in his chair as both fighters settled into their corners.

José Alvarez looked sharp, light on his feet even before the opening horn.

The Brazilian’s style was familiar to Damon, slick, fast, and surgical when he found his rhythm.

José thrived on precision, punishing even the smallest mistakes with clean, technical striking.

Theo Brunner was the opposite. Damon knew his power, his size, and his ability to drag fights into grinding battles where opponents broke under the weight.

He wasn’t flashy, but he didn’t need to be. Theo’s pressure and durability made him a different kind of problem.

For Damon, the intrigue wasn’t about who wanted it more. Both men clearly did.

The real question was whether José’s speed and angles could withstand Theo’s constant forward drive.

The referee gave a quick nod to both corners. The horn blared.

José came out fast, snapping a jab right away. It was sharp, straight to the nose, testing range.

Theo didn’t flinch, he stepped through it, hands high, and answered with a heavy low kick that cracked against José’s thigh.

José circled out, bouncing, then cut back in with a crisp one-two.

The cross smacked Theo on the cheek, but he absorbed it, walking forward like it barely touched him.

Theo fired back with a looping right hook, forcing José to slide out of range, but he was already closing the distance again, jabbing at the body before stepping into the clinch.

José shoved off quickly, creating space, and fired a kick to the body that echoed.

Theo grunted but immediately came forward again, tossing a straight right down the pipe that José slipped with sharp head movement.

The first minute was a clear clash of styles, José darting in and out, fast and clean, Theo plodding forward, heavy and unshaken. Damon narrowed his eyes, already seeing the battle lines drawn.

Theo Brunner pressed forward, his shoulders hunched, chin tucked, throwing heavy hands designed to break through José’s movement.

He cut the cage well, stepping wide, forcing José to circle into his power side.

José Alvarez didn’t panic. The Brazilian slid in and out, peppering Theo with jabs and body shots.

His hands were fast, snapping leather off Theo’s guard, never staying still long enough to be cornered.

Theo lunged forward with a right hook that clipped José’s temple, forcing him to backpedal.

José reset immediately, planting his feet and digging a left hook to Theo’s ribs before retreating again. The crack of it echoed, but Theo just grunted, nodding as if it only fueled him.

They clashed in the clinch. Theo muscled José against the fence, pinning him with underhooks.

He worked dirty boxing, short uppercuts and shoulder strikes, grinding pressure.

José tightened his frame, slipping an elbow inside that grazed Theo’s cheek before spinning free.

Back in open space, José snapped a jab to the head, then doubled it to the body. His footwork was crisp, angles sharp, always forcing Theo to reset before committing.

Damon, watching from the side, nodded slightly.

Theo answered with a stiff low kick that chopped into José’s thigh, then came over the top with a right hand that cracked against his guard.

The force still sent José stepping back, his balance briefly shaken. Theo chased, throwing a heavy left hook that barely whistled past José’s jaw.

José planted, countered. A straight right fired down the middle, snapping Theo’s head back.

He followed with a left hook, clean across the chin. Theo staggered, blinking, but kept his legs under him.

The fight was heating.

Theo growled as he stormed forward again, unloading wide hooks.

One crashed into José’s guard, the other thudded into his shoulder.

José slipped the third, pivoted, and drilled a right hand straight into Theo’s temple. Sweat sprayed into the lights.

Theo’s knees dipped. For the first time, he looked rocked.

José smelled it. He swarmed, jab, cross, hook, uppercut, each strike finding its way through. Theo shelled up, stumbling toward the fence, his guard barely holding.

Desperation took over. Theo ducked for a takedown, wrapping José’s waist.

He drove forward, but José widened his stance, stuffed it, and hammered short elbows down on Theo’s back.

Theo clung on, trying to reset, but José shoved him off, circled, and threw a head kick. The shin smacked against Theo’s guard, still enough force to rattle him.

Theo’s legs wobbled.

José stepped in, ripping a left hook to the body, then immediately came upstairs with the right cross. It landed flush on the jaw.

Theo’s head snapped back. His legs gave way, and he dropped hard to the canvas.

José didn’t hesitate. He pounced, raining down hammerfists. One, two, three smashed into Theo’s guard before the referee dove between them, waving it off.

Theo rolled to his side, glassy-eyed, while José jumped to his feet, pumping his fists, his face lit with adrenaline.

The knockout was clean. Brutal, but clean.

Damon leaned forward, arms still crossed, expression measured. He had seen it coming the moment José’s rhythm locked in.

Against Brunner’s raw pressure, José Alvarez had shown exactly why he was considered the sharpest striker in the bracket.

And now, he had punched his ticket to the final.