MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 592

Chapter 592: Chapter 592: Art in Motion
The horn sounded.

Round 3 began.

Tolkov rose from his stool with a tighter guard than before, his feet more active beneath him. Across the cage, Edlen didn’t sit between rounds. He bounced in place as if nothing had changed.

“Here we go—round three underway,” said the one of the commentators. “If you’re just joining us, it’s the American Joren Edlen versus Russia’s Anatyr Tolkov in the World MMA Tournament Final, live from Singapore.”

“And we’ve seen two very different rounds so far,” another one added. “Edlen’s controlled almost every grappling exchange, but Tolkov made adjustments late in Round 2. He started making Joren work harder.”

“They’ve both settled in now,” the third partner chimed in. “This round is gonna be about who takes over—pace, timing, pressure. This is where it gets real.”

They met near the center.

Edlen snapped out a jab immediately. Tolkov parried it clean and returned a low kick to the calf—sharp, no wind-up. Edlen caught it on the thigh but kept moving forward, bouncing lightly, hands high.

Tolkov fired another, this one outside the leg. Same result.

Then he faked it and shot a jab up the middle. It tapped Edlen’s mouth guard and reset the range.

“Good work from Tolkov early,” analyst said as he observed. “He’s doing a better job disrupting rhythm. That’s how you get to a guy like Edlen—you don’t let him chain his setups.”

Edlen responded by feinting a shot. Tolkov didn’t bite this time. Instead, he stepped to his right and fired a tight hook to the body. It landed flush.

“Ooh, that landed, that’s the second clean one to the ribs in this fight. Those add up.”

Edlen stepped off the centerline and launched a front kick that forced Tolkov back. Then he cut an angle and fired a straight right down the pipe. It missed, barely, but Tolkov’s return hook also came up short.

Neither man was reckless.

They were thinking. Each exchange was calculated.

Joren faked low again, then snapped a jab to the nose. Tolkov covered but didn’t retreat. He countered with a right cross that grazed Edlen’s temple.

“Tolkov’s not falling for the same tricks now. His read is sharper here in Round 3.”

“Yeah but Joren’s still pressing,” noted one of the commentators. “And that’s what makes him dangerous—he forces you to fight at his tempo.”

At the two-minute mark, Edlen dipped and shot a single-leg from open space. He got in deep. Tolkov tried to sprawl, but Edlen immediately switched to a double, lifted, and turned him off the cage.

THUMP.

Tolkov hit the mat hard, and Edlen landed on top in half guard.

“That’s a big takedown,” the lead commentator called. “Perfectly timed.”

Tolkov tried to post and shrimp to the cage, but Edlen locked down his hips, flattened him, and began chipping away with short right elbows.

“Watch the pressure, Joren’s not just laying on him. He’s scoring. He’s dragging this fight exactly where he wants it.”

Tolkov tried to build a frame, but Edlen broke it, posted high, and landed two quick left hands to the cheek. Then he dropped his weight again and pinned the wrist.

“Controlling the wrist now, he’s working toward a pass. You see how he’s slowly inching that left knee over the thigh?”

Tolkov adjusted and managed to recover full guard—but Edlen sat upright, postured, and dropped a heavy elbow from above.

“That one snapped the head back,” the analyst said. “You can’t take too many of those.”

Tolkov pulled his knees up, trying to create distance. Edlen passed them, dropping back into half with his chest flat. His control was clean. His posture was heavy, and his breathing stayed steady.

“He’s drowning him. This is how you break guys who have knockout power. You make them carry your weight.”

One minute left.

Tolkov exploded to his hip. He framed off, turned his shoulder, and finally got a knee under him. Edlen adjusted again, wrapping the waist and threatening to take the back.

Tolkov stood.

The crowd reacted instantly.

Edlen released, reset, and stepped into a leg kick that thudded against the Russian’s thigh.

Tolkov shook it off, fired a quick jab, then stepped forward with a rear uppercut—just missed.

“That was close, and that shows Tolkov’s still in this. He’s still dangerous.”

The round closed with another faint exchange.

Damon leaned forward slightly on the couch.

He was surprised, just a little. The fight was entering the fourth round.

He had expected Joren to either wear Tolkov out with top control or find a submission once the Russian started slowing down. But Tolkov had made it here—still sharp, still moving.

Though now, Damon could see the shift.

Tolkov was more active. He was circling wider, reacting faster. It looked good on the surface, but Damon knew better.

Increased movement meant increased output. That meant energy loss. And if you lost energy against someone like Joren Edlen, you didn’t get it back.

The fourth round began.

They touched gloves again, no emotion behind it. Just acknowledgment.

Tolkov stepped out first this time, popping a low kick and then a sharp jab. Edlen deflected it, stayed tight, and returned with a snappy body hook that bent Tolkov’s elbow in tight.

Joren didn’t wait. He stepped in immediately behind it with a double jab, a right hand that missed, and then clinched with a quick level change.

Tolkov tried to pull away.

Joren shifted off to the side, changing the angle.

And then the left hand landed.

It wasn’t wild. It wasn’t even hard.

It was clean.

Tolkov’s legs buckled under him. His feet staggered backward, and Joren pushed forward—his right palm found Tolkov’s chest, and he drove him down into the canvas.

The crowd roared as Tolkov hit the mat with a stunned expression, trying to pull his legs under him. Joren was already over him.

Full posture. No delay.

Elbow. Elbow. Hammerfist.

Each one slammed flush into Tolkov’s guard.

He covered up high, but Joren adjusted, trapped the wrist, and drove three clean shots to the ear.

Tolkov tried to turn and recover guard, but Joren slid with him.

Weight over the hips, head under the chin, hips low. He pinned the wrist, floated his body upward, and isolated the arm.

Tolkov tried to buck again, but the space was gone.

Joren spun his hips over the trapped shoulder, stepped off to the side, and pulled the arm across the belly.

“Straight to the deep arc—he’s got it tight,” Damon muttered, his eyes narrowing as he watched.

Joren leaned back carefully. No rush.

Tolkov gritted his teeth. He tried to bridge and yank free, but the elbow was locked tight. The angle was set.

Pressure shifted.

Joren didn’t wrench it—he just let gravity stretch the shoulder slowly backward.

Tolkov’s legs kicked once.

Then he tapped.

It was clear. Both hands.

The referee dove in and waved it off.

The commentary team exploded.

“Joren Edlen seals it in the fourth round!”

“America’s machine gets it done, and he’s officially next in line for Damon Cross!”