MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 823

Chapter 823: Chapter 823: The Last Instructions

The referee stepped into the center, motioning both fighters forward. Damon and Ivan closed the distance, their eyes locked but their bodies calm.

“Alright, gentlemen,” the referee began, his voice firm but steady. “We’ve gone over the rules in the back. Protect yourselves at all times. Follow my instructions at all times. If you want to touch gloves, do it now. Good luck.”

Without hesitation, Damon extended his glove. Ivan met it instantly, a sharp smack between them.

Whatever bad blood lingered outside the cage, inside it was stripped down to respect and the fight itself.

The crowd roared at the gesture, the tension boiling into pure anticipation.

Both men backed into their corners, shaking out their arms, bouncing lightly on their toes. The referee glanced at the timekeeper, raised his hand—

The storm was about to begin.

The referee checked both corners, then raised his hands.

“Ready?” he pointed at Ivan.

Ivan nodded, fists high.

“Ready?” he turned to Damon.

Damon bounced once, eyes locked.

“Fight!”

The bell rang, and the crowd roared.

Jim Logan’s voice surged. “And here we go, ladies and gentlemen, Damon Cross versus Ivan Novak, for the undisputed middleweight championship of the world! Damon in the green tights, Ivan in black.”

Both fighters stepped forward cautiously, neither rushing. Damon circled to his left, his lead hand flicking out half-feints, testing the distance.

Ivan kept his guard tight, chin down, measuring with small steps, eyes glued to Damon’s shoulders.

Damian Kormier leaned in. “This is what we expected, slow, technical. Both guys know the other can end it with one mistake.”

Damon snapped a low calf kick to start, the smack echoing in the arena. Ivan didn’t flinch, returning with a stiff jab that grazed Damon’s guard.

Nix added evenly, “Ivan’s looking calm here, reading Damon’s rhythm. He can’t get impatient, he has to make Damon miss, make him work.”

Damon tested the waters again with another jab, pulling his head just off the centerline when Ivan flicked a counter.

The two circled, the tension building, every feint drawing gasps from the crowd.

Damon circled patiently, his lead hand hovering, twitching with small movements.

He wasn’t trying to land yet, he was reading. Every time Ivan’s shoulders twitched, every time his hips shifted, Damon logged it away.

Ivan threw a jab. Damon leaned just out of range, eyes locked on the extension, noting the rhythm. He stepped in with a calf kick, not heavy, just a touch, then reset.

This was the plan. Don’t give Ivan chaos. Don’t rush. Let him show his hand.

Damon feinted a level change, watching Ivan’s reaction, he bit slightly, lowering his guard a fraction before recovering. Damon stored it in the back of his mind.

He pawed with his jab again, and Ivan flicked one back, the two touching gloves in mid-air.

Damon smirked faintly, stepping to the outside angle, forcing Ivan to pivot.

He wasn’t pressing for power yet. He wanted Ivan to feel the range, to understand that every time he reached, Damon was just beyond it. Every low kick, every jab, was like placing pieces on a board.

Ivan adjusted, stepping in with a heavy cross that skimmed Damon’s guard. Damon absorbed it, circled out, then fired another calf kick, sharper this time, forcing Ivan to reset his stance.

The crowd grew restless with the slow pace, but Damon didn’t care.

He could hear Victor faintly over the noise, reminding him to stay disciplined.

This wasn’t about giving the fans fireworks early, it was about making Ivan play his game.

Ivan didn’t bite on Damon’s feints for long.

He stayed patient, guard high, chin tucked, and met Damon’s pressure with small pivots of his own.

When Damon jabbed, Ivan parried. When Damon stepped in for a low kick, Ivan checked it.

Damon circled to the left, looking to establish his lead hand. Ivan mirrored, cutting the angle so Damon couldn’t line up the right cross. They were reading each other, waiting for the smallest mistake.

Damon tested again, jab to the head, jab to the body. Ivan slipped just off center and came back with a quick one-two that skimmed off Damon’s guard. Damon slid back, taking note of the speed.

For every adjustment Damon made, Ivan had one waiting. When Damon flicked the low kick, Ivan timed a counter right down the middle.

When Damon feinted the level change, Ivan sprawled half a step, forcing Damon to reset.

Neither man rushed. Every strike was measured, every step deliberate.

Damon threw a right hand halfway through the round, clean, straight, but Ivan slipped it and answered with a hook that clipped Damon’s guard, letting him know the respect was mutual.

Inside, Damon kept his composure. He wasn’t surprised. Ivan had built his record on patience and fundamentals, and it showed here.

Damon wasn’t walking down a brawler, he was standing across from another technician.

Damon jabbed again, touching the guard, then pivoted out before Ivan’s counter could land.

He circled back to the center, bounced on his toes, and fired another calf kick.

Ivan checked it this time, answering with a jab of his own that landed flush on Damon’s cheek.

The crowd cheered at the clean connection, but Damon didn’t flinch. He stepped right back in, firing a jab to the body and a left hook upstairs. Ivan blocked both, rolled under, and reset.

Neither man gave ground. Neither man overcommitted. The round was a chess match, but not slow, it was sharp, tense, each second filled with tiny battles most wouldn’t notice.

By the final minute, both had landed clean. Damon with his calf kicks and steady jab, Ivan with his cross and tighter counters.

Nothing decisive, but enough to show this was going to be a long, calculated fight.

The horn sounded to end the first round. Damon and Ivan touched gloves once more before heading back to their corners, their breathing steady, eyes still locked even as they sat.

At the desk, Jim Logan broke in first. “Alright, that was a technical first round. Neither man overcommitted, both playing it smart. Damon worked behind the jab and those calf kicks, but Ivan was right there with the checks and the counters.”

Damian Kormier nodded. “Yeah, and you can see why Ivan’s undefeated. He doesn’t panic, he doesn’t chase. He matched Damon’s pace, made him think twice about every feint. A lot of guys get overwhelmed early by Damon, Ivan didn’t.”

Nix kept his tone calm. “That was about information. Damon’s used to dictating from the start, but Ivan showed he can control distance too. No big moments yet, but both are setting traps. Round two is where things might open up.”

Jim leaned forward, voice steady. “Exactly. The patience is there, but someone’s going to break that rhythm. The question is, who makes the first big read?”

The camera cut to Damon’s corner, Victor speaking low but sharp, while Ivan’s coaches gave their instructions across the cage.

The crowd buzzed, restless for action, knowing the chess match was only building toward something bigger.