MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 532

Chapter 532: Chapter 532: The Hard Truthl
It was clear now, this fight wasn’t the blowout many predicted.

Chemasov had come in like a storm, expected to walk through PDD and claim the title as if it were his birthright. The fans bought into it. The analysts leaned toward it. The hype behind him was relentless.

But in the cage, things were different.

The champion was fighting like a man who refused to be a stepping stone. PDD had weathered the early storm, shrugged off the takedown attempts, and turned the momentum. His hands were sharper, his movement cleaner, and his composure unshaken.

Every time Chemasov overextended, PDD punished him with something stiff. And when Chemasov tried to shoot, he met a wall, sprawls, underhooks, or a hard knee to the body that sent him back to square one.

It wasn’t just defense. It was calculated dismantling.

Commentary had shifted tones now.

“Chemasov’s gonna have to dig deep,” Jon Goodman said, his voice serious. “That gas tank’s not holding up under this pace, and PDD, man, he’s fighting smart.”

“Look, if this hits the ground,” Rich Alvarez added, “Chemasov’s a nightmare. But we’ve said that for fifteen minutes now. PDD isn’t letting it happen.”

The third round neared its end, and Chemasov looked winded. Not broken, but cracked.

He was still throwing. Still walking forward. But the rhythm was off. The bounce was gone. His shots came slower now, easier to read.

PDD didn’t taunt or showboat. He stayed dialed in.

Because he knew, it only took one mistake to let Chemasov flip the script.

But so far? He wasn’t giving him that moment.

As the bell rang to close out the third round, both men turned away without fanfare. No extra jabs, no stare-downs. Just silent breaths and heavy steps back to their corners.

They knew the round was slow.

They knew nothing shifted.

It was the kind of round that let both fighters catch a breath, but it also gave the judges little to score on. And in a five-round title fight, that meant the pressure was only building.

Balim Chemasov dropped onto his stool, sweat dripping down his back. His chest heaved slightly, but his face wore no panic, only frustration.

His corner didn’t clap or congratulate.

They were stern.

“You’re waiting too long,” his head coach barked, squatting in front of him. “Stop letting him dictate the pace!”

One of the assistants poured water over his shoulders as the coach continued, tapping Balim’s thigh with urgency.

“You’re not losing yet, but you’re not winning either. We need a round. You hear me? You need to go get it.”

Balim nodded, tight-lipped, but his eyes stayed locked on his coach.

“You want to be champ? Then stop fighting like you’re waiting for a gift. He’s not gonna hand you anything. You have to TAKE it.”

They wiped his face. Slapped his shoulders.

The horn sounded.

And Balim stood up, breathing sharper now.

The slow round was over.

Now it was time to fight.

Balim Chemasov stood at the edge of the stool as the seconds counted down, shaking his arms loose. Sweat clung to his back, but his eyes were cold and locked forward.

He was frustrated. Not at PDD. At himself.

He couldn’t get him down.

And that’s where the fight lived. On the mat. On the canvas, Balim knew he was the better man. That’s where he dismantled opponents. Smothered them. Broke them. But PDD wasn’t letting him play his game. Every shot was stuffed, every entry blocked, every trip met with hips of iron.

It was starting to gnaw at him.

PDD wasn’t slick or flashy. But his base was strong, and he didn’t give an inch in the grappling exchanges. Balim had tried chain wrestling, trips from the clinch, even misdirected setups from his jab. But nothing stuck.

And he could feel it. The time slipping. The judges watching. The scorecards forming. He hadn’t done enough. Not yet.

He looked across the cage, watching PDD breathe through his nose, calm, collected. Ready.

Balim clenched his jaw.

He didn’t want to leave this to the judges. If he had any pride, he couldn’t. He had to find a pocket. A sliver. A mistake. Anything.

He took one last breath.

This round had to count.

Balim stormed out of the corner like he was fresh off a first round bell, not starting the fourth. His posture was tighter, no more hesitations, and the bounce in his step had returned.

PDD blinked, just once, caught slightly off guard. He’d expected a slower start, expected Balim to pace himself. It was no secret to anyone in the building that Chemasov’s gas tank was often the weak link in his otherwise dominant game.

But now? He was pressing.

Balim threw a quick jab-cross to test the range, then immediately dipped under and rushed into the clinch. The crowd rose with a murmur, this was where he needed to be.

PDD reacted, widening his base, lowering his center of gravity. But the entry had been clean. Sharp. And Balim was already working for a trip along the fence.

Commentary picked it up fast.

Jon Goodman: “Whoa! Balim starting this round hot! That’s not what I expected at all.”

Rich Alvarez: “This is the fire his corner was yelling for. He doesn’t want to go home wondering if he left anything behind.”

Marvin Duke: “Yeah but the question is, can he sustain this? We’ve seen this movie before. Chemasov lights it up in the fourth, then crashes in the fifth.”

Balim kept pushing. Underhook secured, he dug for a leg, trying to elevate PDD’s balance. PDD stuffed the first attempt but didn’t shake him off.

This wasn’t the same man from round three.

There was something about expecting a man to follow a certain pattern, and then watching him break it.

PDD had figured Balim would slow the fight down, try to catch his breath, maybe coast until the final round. But instead, Balim came forward with pressure. Calculated, not reckless, but unexpected.

He wasn’t wild. He wasn’t throwing bombs. But he wasn’t conserving either.

PDD had prepared for a more measured pace, the kind that came with a tired fighter. But Balim wasn’t giving him that. He was staying active. Pressuring more. Making PDD work harder than he’d planned for.

And that changed things.