MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 487

Chapter 487: Chapter 487: The Second Crowned
The next fight wasn’t just another bout on the card. It was the money fight.

Not in the shallow sense, this wasn’t two influencers cashing in on hype.

This was the kind of fight that, if the UFA had been hosting it under their own banner, they’d be swimming in gold. Pay-per-view records. Sold-out arenas. Every sponsor scrambling to slap their logos anywhere they could.

And truth be told, they probably were getting a cut of this. Maybe even making more here, behind the scenes, than they did with their own events. But that didn’t matter. What mattered was that the next fight was one the world had been waiting for.

The Lightweight Finals.

Eslum Nurkachek vs. Eilya Putoria.

A clash of styles, a collision of dominance and flair. Russia versus Georgia. Two names that had cut through the tournament with violence and precision, leaving no doubt they belonged here.

Nurkachek the Undisputed machine. A wrestler with suffocating pressure, zero wasted movement, and the kind of discipline that broke opponents mentally long before physically.

Putoria, the striker with bad intentions. Fast, slick, and lethal. A well-balanced fighter who made violence look beautiful, who turned every exchange into an opportunity to end a career.

This was one of those fights.

Where two generational talents met in the octagon.

Two men who had torn through the featherweight/lightweight, bracket in terrifying fashion, now standing across from each other for five rounds that would crown a world champion.

Not for a promotion, but for the World.

The lights dimmed as Eslum Nurkachek made the first walk. Calm, methodical, almost indifferent to the noise crashing down from the stands. His cold stare never left the cage.

He moved like a man who already knew the outcome, like a machine programmed for war.

They called him The Vice.

Once he locked onto you, there was no escape.

Eilya Putoria followed, his walk slower, more deliberate. He soaked it in, the chanting fans waving Georgian flags, his team behind him, pride heavy on their faces.

Eilya wore a faint grin, but his eyes were sharp, calculating. This was the biggest fight of his career, and he knew it.

They called him The Executioner because of the way he ended fights.

But tonight, he was ready for five rounds.

And he knew he’d need all five.

The cage door shut behind them.

The referee gave the final instructions, but neither man seemed to be listening.

Five rounds for the World Lightweight

Championship.

It was time.

The first minute was all feeling out. Eilya worked behind his jab, sharp and snappy, testing Nurkachek’s reactions.

He circled fast, using his footwork to stay clear of the Russian’s pressure. His low calf kicks thudded into Nurkachek’s lead leg, quick and precise, causing a slight reddening by the two-minute mark.

Nurkachek stayed patient, slowly cutting off the cage, not chasing. He threw almost nothing for the first ninety seconds. He was watching. Calculating.

Then, halfway through the round, he burst forward. A quick level change into a deep double-leg shot. Putoria sprawled well, defending the initial takedown, but Nurkachek chained it into a body lock, dragging him toward the fence.

They clinched, Nurkachek digging for underhooks, pressing his head under Putoria’s chin, grinding him against the cage.

Eilya fired short elbows over the top, sharp and fast, catching Nurkachek on the temple. A cut opened on Nurkachek’s hairline, thin but leaking.

Putoria circled out with a slick escape, landing a stiff jab on the exit that snapped Nurkachek’s head back. He finished the round landing two clean right hands, both popping off Nurkachek’s guard.

It was a close round, but Eilya’s striking and damage edged it on most cards.

Nurkachek wasted no time closing distance in the second round. He threw a rare overhand right that missed, but he used it to shoot under Putoria’s counter. This time, he got his hands locked behind Eilya’s hips and lifted him clean off his feet.

The slam was brutal, drawing a collective oof from the crowd as Putoria hit the mat hard. Nurkachek immediately passed to half guard, locking his legs over Eilya’s in a tight ride, and dropped short, hammering elbows. They weren’t wild shots, measured, surgical, grinding punishment.

Putoria stayed calm, framing with his arms, slipping in sneaky elbows from the bottom, but Nurkachek kept his weight heavy. Every time Eilya tried to move, Nurkachek adjusted, kept him flat, kept his hips stuck.

By the last minute, Nurkachek was on Eilya’s back, not fully locked in, but threatening the choke. He didn’t get it, but he made Putoria defend the whole time. When the horn sounded, Nurkachek stood up, expression unchanged.

This was Nurkachek’s round. Clear control. Heavy top game.

Putoria came out fired up in the third round, switching stances more often, adding feints. His jab was sharper, snapping Nurkachek’s head back three times in quick succession. Then came the body kicks, deep, thudding slaps into Nurkachek’s ribs that clearly stung.

At the two-minute mark, Eilya timed Nurkachek’s forward pressure and landed a devastating knee to the body, followed by a short right hook that wobbled him. The crowd erupted as Nurkachek stumbled back, and Putoria pounced.

He pressed forward with a flurry, hooks to the body, uppercuts up the middle. Nurkachek clinched, tying him up, but Eilya broke free with a vicious elbow over the top. Nurkachek’s cut opened wider, blood running down his forehead.

With a minute left, Putoria stuffed a takedown, landing another hard body shot and a left hook on the break. Nurkachek looked to survive, locking him against the fence in the final seconds, but Eilya had stolen the momentum.

Big round for Putoria. Maybe even a 10-8 in some eyes.

Both men looked fatigued but focused as the bell signaling round number 4 sounded.

Nurkachek adjusted.

Less chasing, more discipline.

He worked the clinch early, walking Eilya to the fence again and grinding. He landed knees to the thigh, stomps to the foot, short punches to the body. Nothing pretty, but it drained Eilya’s energy.

Midway through the round, Nurkachek hit a slick inside trip and got Putoria back down.

This time, he passed to side control and started dropping sharp elbows to the ribs. Eilya grimaced but fought through it, framing and shrimping back to half guard.

Every time Putoria moved, Nurkachek punished him.

The Russian was relentless, every second on top was one less Eilya could use to strike.

Still, Eilya fought up with thirty seconds left, landing two short uppercuts in the clinch before they broke.

Nurkachek’s round on control. But it was still close.

They touched gloves for the final round. Both men wore the marks of war

Putoria’s eye was swelling.

Nurkachek’s face was a mask of blood.

Eilya pushed the pace early, landing a hard inside leg kick and following with a crisp 1-2 that snapped Nurkachek’s head back. He was sharp, desperate, knowing this was his moment to steal the fight.

But Nurkachek didn’t back down. He shot for a takedown and drove Putoria into the canvas again, working from half guard, landing short, brutal punches.

Putoria fought to his feet with two minutes left, landing a nasty elbow in close that rocked Nurkachek, opening a new cut under his eye.

They brawled.

Putoria landed a right hook.

Nurkachek answered with a stiff jab.

Eilya threw a spinning back kick that caught Nurkachek in the ribs, but the Russian kept moving forward, closing the distance again.

The final thirty seconds were chaos.

Putoria landed another flush knee.

Nurkachek clinched and fired a left hook over the top.

They swung in the pocket until the horn sounded.

The crowd was on its feet.

Both men stood, exhausted but defiant.

Neither raised their hands.

They both knew how close it was.

.

.

.

They stood center cage, sweat and blood soaking into the canvas.

The crowd waited, tense.

Split decision.

One judge for Putoria.

Two for Nurkachek.

“And your Lightweight Champion of the World MMA Tournament… Eslum Nurkachek!”

No wild celebration.

Nurkachek nodded once, breathing heavy, eyes cold.

They wrapped the heavy, gold-plated belt around his waist.

The medal hung from his neck, shining bright beneath the lights.

It was Russia’s first title of the night.

Maybe not the last.

And it was earned.

Every.

Hard.

Second.

But it had been razor-thin.

The debates would rage for years.

But in that cage, on that night, the hand was raised for Eslum Nurkachek.