MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 817

Chapter 817: Chapter 817: The Verdict

The arena hushed, a ripple of anticipation spreading through the crowd.

Max and Ronny stood in the center, their gloves still on, sweat dripping down their battered faces.

The referee held each man by the wrist, keeping them steady.

Behind them, Duece Buffer straightened his tie, microphone in hand. He drew in a deep breath, his booming voice carrying over the roar of the arena.

“Ladies and gentlemen… after three rounds of absolute war, we go to the judges’ scorecards for a decision.”

The crowd roared, then fell quiet again, waiting.

Judge one handed in his card. “Judge number one scores the fight… 29–28, Taylor.”

A huge cheer erupted from one side of the arena, Max’s supporters on their feet. Max himself nodded once, his eyes locked on the floor, his chest rising and falling hard.

Duece continued, his voice echoing. “Judge number two scores the fight… 29–28, McGregor.”

The opposite side of the arena erupted now, Ronny’s fans chanting his name. Ronny smirked faintly, his swollen lip tugging upward as he looked straight ahead, refusing to show anything more.

The noise grew deafening, both sides of the arena split down the middle.

Duece Buffer raised the final card, his dramatic pause stretching the tension to its breaking point. “And judge number three scores the fight… 29–28…”

He turned, pointing to the side with the winner.

“…for your winner, by split decision, and the Supreme Fighter lightweight champion,

RONNY!!!!!!!! …

MCGREGOR!!!!!”

The crowd exploded, half in cheers, half in boos, the sound shaking the rafters.

Ronny threw his hands in the air, stumbling a little before his corner rushed in to grab him.

His smile widened as they lifted him off the canvas, chanting his name with the crowd.

Max, still in the center, dropped his hands to his hips, nodding slowly. He was disappointed, no doubt, but he didn’t argue.

He walked forward and shook Ronny’s hand.

The fans kept roaring as the referee held Ronny’s wrist high, cementing him as the lightweight winner of The Supreme Fighter.

The cage was still alive with noise when Ronan Black stepped through the door, his sharp suit standing out against the chaos inside.

He moved straight to Ronny McGregor, clapping a firm hand on his shoulder before pulling him into a brief embrace.

“Congratulations, kid,” Ronan said over the din, his voice steady but warm. “That was one hell of a performance. Welcome to the UFA.”

Ronny, still catching his breath, nodded with a faint grin, his eyes glinting under the lights as his corner wrapped their arms around him.

The words meant more than the contract, it was validation, the kind every fighter dreamed of.

Ronan then turned, crossing to where Max Taylor stood with his coaches. Max’s head hung slightly, but his chest still heaved with the pride of having left everything inside the cage.

Ronan placed a hand on his back. “Max,” he said firmly, “keep that chin up. You fought your heart out tonight. That was an incredible showing you’ve got real talent. Don’t you dare give up on yourself. This is just the beginning.”

Max looked up, his swollen face breaking into a faint, grateful smile. He nodded once. “Thank you.”

Ronan gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before stepping back, letting both men soak in the moment, the winner basking in his new spotlight, and the runner-up standing tall despite defeat.

The crowd applauded both, their voices rising in unison. For once, victory and loss shared the same respect.

The process carried on smoothly. Officials cleared the cage, crews reset the canvas, and the crowd barely had time to settle before the big screens lit up again. Another Supreme Fighter final was ready to begin.

This time, it was the middleweights.

Backstage, Damon sat forward in his chair, hands clasped loosely, his eyes on the monitor.

He had just watched Max and Ronny drag each other through three grueling rounds, both refusing to break, both proving themselves.

But he didn’t expect the next fight to follow the same script.

“Yeah,” Damon muttered under his breath, almost to himself, “this one’s different.”

José Alvarez and Chase Dunham were walking contradictions, two men with skill sets that clashed in ways destined for violence.

José, sharp and compact with a ground game that smothered opponents. Chase, explosive with striking, always looking for the highlight reel finish.

Both had weapons. Both had flaws. And each had the exact style that could break the other.

Damon leaned back, shaking his head lightly. “This isn’t going three,” he said, certain. “One way or another, submission, knockout, or TKO, somebody’s not making it to the final horn.”

The muffled roar of the crowd swelled as the arena lights dimmed again, the next war about to begin.

Closer and closer, the night edged toward the fight everyone was waiting for. But first, the cage lights dimmed again, and the middleweight finalists were called.

Music thundered through the arena as José Alvarez walked out first.

Calm and focused, he bounced lightly on his toes, the flag of his home country draped across his shoulders.

The crowd gave him a strong cheer, his quiet intensity resonating with fans who had followed his steady climb through the tournament.

Jim Logan spoke up over the broadcast. “Here comes José Alvarez, folks. No frills, no extra noise, just a grinder. His grappling is top-tier, and once he gets on top of you, it’s a nightmare trying to shake him off. We’ve seen it all season long.”

Damian Kormier nodded. “Yeah, José is that suffocating style. He doesn’t need to say a lot, he doesn’t need to get flashy. He’ll put you against the cage, drag you down, and make your life miserable. That’s how he’s won his fights.”

Nix added evenly, “And the big question tonight is whether he can impose that game plan on Chase. Because Chase is explosive, and José has been clipped before. This is the ultimate clash of styles.”

The music switched, and the tone in the arena shifted instantly.

Chase Dunham made his entrance, swagger in every step, pointing to the crowd as boos and cheers mixed in a storm of noise.

He shadowboxed down the ramp, smirking at cameras, his confidence filling the building.

Jim Logan leaned forward. “And here’s Chase Dunham, the polar opposite. Explosive, unpredictable, heavy hands. He wants that highlight finish. He wants to send José to the shadow realm, and he’s got the tools to do it.”

Damian chuckled. “And let’s not forget, Chase stirred the pot at the press conference too. He’s got that chip on his shoulder, man. He wants to make a statement, not just win.”

Nix wrapped it up cleanly. “This is the recipe for chaos. If José gets Chase down, it could be a grind. But if Chase keeps it standing, he has the power to end this fight in an instant. Something’s gotta give.”

The fighters entered the cage, their eyes already locked. The referee called them in for instructions, the tension thick in the air.