MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat - Chapter 645

Chapter 645: Chapter 645: The Final Grind
Damon reset his feet and let a wild low kick fly, too wide, it missed by inches, Jon’s leg slipping just out of range. Damon’s teeth ground together, his breath steady, eyes sharp.

The commentators were fired up, voices rising over the roar of the crowd.

“Damon Cross is putting on a show here!” the first one said, nearly out of breath himself. “Jon’s still in it, but he looks completely gassed out.”

“You can see it, Jon’s punches are getting slower, more predictable,” the second commentator agreed. “And Damon’s not just surviving, he’s thriving. Look at that movement, weaving through Jon’s shots like Muhammad Ali!”

Jon threw another looping right that Damon saw coming a mile away.

He bobbed under it, a slight grin flickering across his lips, and popped up with a jab that snapped Jon’s head back.

Damon didn’t even pause, he kept weaving, slipping another tired cross from Jon that whiffed past his ear.

Jon tried to throw a left hook, but Damon slipped it again, shifting his weight with that easy, fluid motion, his gloves flicking out fast and sharp.

“Jon’s got power, but Damon’s making him look slow right now,” the first commentator said. “That’s the difference tonight, speed and cardio. Damon’s still moving like it’s the first round!”

The crowd was on its feet, the sound of it washing over Damon as he pressed forward again.

He didn’t rush, he didn’t need to. He let Jon throw, let Jon tire himself out, then punished him for every missed shot.

Damon’s gloves found Jon’s body again, quick hooks to the ribs that thumped and made Jon’s breath stutter.

Jon’s shoulders were heaving, his arms heavy and slow. Damon’s footwork was crisp, every step balanced, his guard high. He knew he was in control, knew he was picking Jon apart piece by piece.

Another cross from Jon, another slip by Damon, and he countered with a short right hook that snapped Jon’s head to the side.

Damon felt the sweat fly from Jon’s hair, saw the moment’s hesitation in his eyes. He didn’t stop. He was relentless.

The cage felt smaller now, every inch of space owned by Damon’s pressure and movement.

He could feel Jon’s energy fading, the snap gone from his punches. But Damon wasn’t done. He was going to make this last as long as it took.

Damon smiled, his lips curling as he saw Jon’s shoulders dip for another tired swing.

In that split second, he shifted his weight, lowered his level, and shot in for the takedown, quick, explosive, a sudden change of rhythm that caught Jon off guard.

Jon’s feet planted too late. Damon’s shoulder slammed into Jon’s hips, his arms wrapping tight around the waist as he drove forward.

Jon tried to sprawl, but his legs were heavy now, the gas tank low after round after round of war.

Damon kept driving, his feet chopping forward, and Jon went down with a thump, the canvas rattling under them.

The commentators went wild.

“Oh, there it is, the first takedown of the fight!” the first commentator shouted.

“And look at the timing!” the second said. “Damon’s been standing and banging all night, and then, boom, level change. Jon never saw it coming.”

Damon didn’t waste a second. He moved to half guard, his weight heavy on Jon’s chest, his head pressed in tight.

He could feel Jon’s breath heaving against his shoulder, the strain in the man’s arms as he tried to push away.

Damon didn’t let him breathe. He posted up and dropped short elbows to the body, not going wild, just letting each one thud in.

He could feel the impact, feel Jon’s ribs give under each strike. Jon squirmed, tried to shrimp his hips, but Damon’s balance was perfect.

He rode every movement, keeping his base strong, every inch of Jon’s resistance costing him more energy.

He slipped in a few short punches to the head, just enough to keep Jon guessing, then went back to the body.

He wasn’t trying to end it here. He was draining Jon’s reserves, making him fight for every breath.

The sweat mixed with blood, slick under Damon’s forearm as he pressed his weight down, feeling Jon’s arms slow, his frame heavy.

Victor’s voice was there, low and calm from the corner. “Good, Damon. Make him work. Keep him down. Break him.”

Damon kept working, every second on top a hammer on Jon’s will.

The fight continued in the same punishing rhythm into the fifth and final round.

Damon didn’t rush, he stayed smart, grinding Jon down on the mat whenever he could.

Each takedown was smoother than the last, each time forcing Jon to work harder to stand, to breathe, to survive.

Every time they clinched, Damon’s shoulder dug in, his weight pressing down like an anchor.

He peppered short punches and elbows to the body and head, never giving Jon a moment to rest.

The sweat soaked through their shorts, the crowd’s roars blending into a dull thunder in Damon’s ears.

When they finally stood with just two minutes left in the fight, the difference was clear.

Damon moved light on his feet, his eyes locked on Jon, shoulders loose and ready. Jon’s guard was a mess, his hands low, his mouth open, each breath a labored drag.

Jon tried to throw, but his shots were slow, wide, desperate.

Damon saw every one coming, slipping them with ease and responding with short, sharp counters, nothing wasted, every punch landing clean.

He jabbed to the head, then a quick hook to the body that made Jon double up for a moment.

Damon didn’t even pause. He cut an angle, moving to Jon’s right, a blur of motion compared to the slow drag of Jon’s feet.

His legs felt strong, his breath steady, like he could go another five rounds if he needed to.

Jon staggered forward, his chin hanging open, trying to find the shot that would turn the fight.

Damon ducked under another sloppy overhand, pivoting around to Jon’s side, then tapping him with a quick left to the ribs that left Jon sucking air.

The crowd was on its feet, sensing the end was close. Damon didn’t let up, he moved in, out, never letting Jon set his feet, every punch he threw landing with a thump that echoed off the walls of the cage.