MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 601

Chapter 601: Chapter 601: Masterclass
It wasn’t that Damon was unpredictable. It was that the pattern he set had disappeared.

The feints were gone. Everything he threw now was real—and Joren couldn’t tell when the change had happened.

He shot for a takedown out of desperation, hoping to smother the pace.

Damon sprawled cleanly, dug an underhook, and angled out. They reset. Damon hit a stiff jab to the nose, then threw a quick shovel hook to the body.

Joren responded late. His counter right missed by a half-second, and Damon already had space again.

“He’s drowning him in timing,” one of the commentators said. “Joren’s still dangerous, but he’s reacting late now. That’s dangerous when you’re against someone who’s this calm.”

With under a minute to go, Damon stepped in and hit another body shot, then spun out of range, letting Joren follow him uselessly.

Damon stepped in again, snapping a jab through the guard.

Joren raised his hands, but it landed anyway, popping his head back with a thump of glove on skin. Damon didn’t pause.

He followed with a left hook to the ribs, then slid just out of reach as Joren fired back with a desperate one-two.

The Irishman was still calm. Still breathing through his nose. Still moving like the cage belonged to him.

Joren’s footwork was starting to falter. He shuffled instead of stepping. His head moved slower. The weight of the pace Damon had set was starting to take its toll.

“He’s not just fighting Joren,” one commentator said. “He’s managing every inch of space, every breath, every thought in his opponent’s head.”

Damon feinted low—just once—and Joren’s level dropped by instinct. Damon didn’t punish him.

He simply stepped around and jabbed him again. Each touch chipped away more confidence.

From the corner, Joren’s coaches shouted. “Cut him off! Don’t follow—cut! Inside step! Inside step, dammit!”

Another voice followed. “Joren, move your head! Get inside and wrestle! You’re letting him style on you!”

But Joren couldn’t hear the instructions anymore. Or he could, but they didn’t matter. Damon was in the zone, and nothing was reaching through that flow.

Damon tested the lead leg with another low kick. Joren checked it this time, finally—but Damon was already moving high, landing a rear straight to the temple.

The shot snapped Joren’s head sideways, and for a brief moment, his legs buckled.

He didn’t fall, but his stance turned clumsy, his guard flaring out wide as he stumbled two steps back. Damon didn’t rush—he stalked, eyes locked in.

“He’s hurt!” one commentator barked. “He didn’t go down, but that rocked him!”

Joren circled away on instinct, trying to reset his footing, but Damon never broke rhythm.

He walked him down, slipped a wide hook, and punished him with another shot to the body—this one cleaner, sharper, digging deep into the ribs.

Joren grunted, the first real sound of damage he’d made all fight. His corner screamed at him now, desperate.

“Clinch him! CLINCH!”

“Breathe! You gotta breathe!”

Damon closed the gap, stepping inside with a jab-straight combo.

The straight grazed, but it forced Joren to lift his hands again, exposing the midsection. Damon faked a high left, then sent a brutal teep into the gut.

Joren folded slightly and shot on instinct. Damon sprawled before the takedown even took shape. His hips dropped, legs wide, and arms locked around Joren’s chest.

He spun to the back—fast, precise—hooking his right leg across Joren’s thigh and dragging him sideways to the canvas.

Joren tried to post up, but Damon’s right hand slid under the chin like he was flipping a switch.

“He’s got the back! He’s got the choke coming!”

“No, look—he’s not choking! He’s riding him! He’s staying heavy!”

Damon didn’t rush for a submission. He stayed in half-back control, raining short elbows to the shoulder and temple—just sharp enough to sting, just frequent enough to break focus.

Joren bucked. He tried to roll.

Damon floated with him, legs shifting, hips adjusting.

“He’s cooking him. That’s what this is.”

“Drowning him in pressure. He’s not hunting a finish—he’s dismantling him.”

Joren’s hands grabbed at Damon’s wrists. His arms moved slower now. The explosion wasn’t there. The defense was measured, but desperate.

Damon rode the back again, this time both hooks in, and sat him up with pure leverage.

The way his arms slid under, the way his hips shifted behind the spine—it was clean, exact. This wasn’t just grappling. This was dismantling.

“Flatten him out!” a commentator shouted over the noise. “He’s got him high, he’s got him centered—this could be it!”

Joren’s corner roared with desperation now, a wall of sound crashing over the cage wall.

“Roll! Roll to the left!”

“Fight the hands! Elbow hand, elbow hand!”

But Joren wasn’t listening again. Not because he didn’t want to. Because he couldn’t.

His breaths were short now. His chin tucked, but not tight.

His body language was defensive, reactive—no longer dangerous. Damon felt it.

He didn’t go for the choke yet.

Instead, he struck. Short, piston elbows. Right, left, right again. They landed behind the ear, near the temple.

Joren’s arms flinched, trying to block, but Damon simply adjusted—hooked one wrist, pinned it to the mat, and continued the barrage.

“He’s overwhelming him! That’s thirty unanswered!”

“Ref’s looking close now. If Joren doesn’t move—this might be it!”

Joren finally tried to explode. He bridged hard, hips shooting up.

Damon let it ride, lifted his own hips, then collapsed back down with a clean mat return—hooks still in, riding like a backpack with blades.

Then came the final shift.

Damon’s left arm slipped under the chin—not behind the jaw, not under one side—but straight beneath the throat.

He didn’t squeeze yet. He set. Tightened the wrist. Then locked the right hand behind the head.

Rear naked choke, and it was dead center.

Joren clawed at the forearm, pulled at the bicep—but his hands were slow. His legs kicked, but there was no rhythm. No balance. No escape.

The crowd surged. A wave of noise.

The referee dropped low, shouting, “Show me something! Joren—show me!”

But Joren’s arms were slipping. His fingers opened. His legs sagged.

Then—

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

Three times, fast, on Damon’s wrist.

The referee dove in. “That’s it! That’s it! It’s over!”

Damon released instantly, standing up with control, not celebration. Joren rolled to his back, chest heaving, eyes distant.

His corner rushed in with ice, towels, hands on shoulders—but the fight had already left the building.

“And just like that,” one commentator shouted, “Damon Cross proves why he’s the best in the world—again!”

“Masterclass. Pure control. That was the performance of a man at the height of his craft.”

Damon walked calmly to the center of the cage as the referee held his wrist.

He glanced down at Joren, he wasn’t gloating, but respect. A nod. Then he looked out at the crowd.

Joey leaned over the cage, laughing with relief.

Victor kept his arms crossed, but his eyes told the story.

The announcer stepped into the cage, voice booming.