MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 838: Boxing With Legends

A few days passed, and Damon had fully settled into boxing training. The first sessions were focused more on rhythm and habit than raw technique.

He'd already met everyone on the team, pad holders, conditioning coaches, sparring partners, and of course, Tyron's handpicked assistant trainers who ran the drills with military precision.

The system had already confirmed what he knew, his boxing proficiency was at ★★★★★, full. It wasn't that they were teaching him how to box.

Damon already had that down. His punches were sharp, his guard clean, his reactions elite. What they were doing was reshaping his instincts.

His current boxing style was made for MMA, built on the range of kicks, the angles of Muay Thai, and the constant awareness of takedowns.

Traditional boxing didn't care about that. It was its own language, one that demanded rhythm, compact defense, and endurance over chaos.

Every time Damon moved, someone corrected him. His stance was too wide. His shoulders turned too much. His footwork, while fluid for the cage, opened gaps in the ring. None of it was wrong, it just didn't belong here.

So Damon adapted. Every day, he shadowboxed in front of the mirror, watching for the smallest flaws. Every hour of sparring drilled into him the one truth of boxing, control was everything.

And as the sessions went on, he could feel it. The rhythm of the ring was starting to make sense.

And it was frustrating, having to hold back every instinct that made him who he was. His body wanted to kick, to clinch, to mix the levels like he always did.

Restraining that felt unnatural. He just hoped it wouldn't dull his edge,

that it wouldn't make him too boxing-reliant when he returned to MMA.

To push his training even further, Damon decided to enter his system's simulation. It was primarily designed for MMA scenarios, but it could adapt to anything he wanted, and this time, he wanted boxing.

Within seconds, the world around him changed. The floor under his feet turned from gym mats to smooth canvas, surrounded by bright ropes. The hum of a virtual crowd filled the air, soft but present.

And across from him stood the legend himself, Mu Ali, the system's recreation of the greatest boxer to ever live. Damon had fought monsters, champions, and even virtual gods inside this simulation, but this felt different.

He rolled his shoulders as the simulated referee stepped between them, giving instructions. Damon couldn't help but grin. It was surreal, standing in front of a man who embodied pure boxing.

He exhaled once, steadying his breathing as the ref finished speaking. The bell rang, echoing through the ring.

It was time to test himself against the greatest.

Damon had never been in a pure boxing match before.

The bell rang. Damon raised his gloves and took a step forward. The canvas felt light under his feet, springy, nothing like the cage.

Across from him, Mu Ali moved with effortless rhythm. His steps were quick, light, and perfectly timed.

Damon advanced behind his guard, testing with a jab. Ali slipped without flinching, his shoulders rolling as his lead hand snapped back with a jab of his own. It landed clean on Damon's forehead. Sharp, direct, and precise. Damon took it well, nodding once, and stepped again.

Ali circled right, keeping distance, never standing still. He threw another jab, then two more, barely giving Damon room to breathe. Damon parried the first, blocked the second, but the third slid through the guard and brushed his cheek. The timing was unreal.

Damon reset and fired back, double jab, right hand. The air popped from the force, but Ali was already gone, leaning back just far enough to make it miss.

He countered with a short left hook that caught Damon on the side of the head. Damon turned his chin with it, lessening the impact, but still felt the weight of the blow.

The movement difference was clear. Ali wasn't fast in bursts, he was fast all the time. Everything flowed together. Every step, every slip, every punch. There was no wasted motion. Damon had fought speed before, but this was something else.

He tried to push the pace. Feint, jab, hook. Ali stepped back, slid left, and tapped him again with a jab. Damon closed in, forcing a short exchange in the corner. He managed to land a clean right to the body, but Ali immediately pivoted out, leaving Damon punching air.

The sound of the crowd filled the simulation, realistic enough to feel real. Every punch echoed. Sweat rolled down Damon's face, but he was locked in.

He adjusted his stance, tightening the guard. He knew Ali wasn't unbeatable, he was reading patterns. Ali always jabbed three times before pivoting, always circled right when pressured. Damon started closing off that angle, forcing him to move left instead.

When Ali jabbed again, Damon slipped inside and threw a hard left hook. It connected, glancing across Ali's chin. Ali stepped back fast, smiling faintly as if acknowledging it, but Damon didn't care. He stepped in again, throwing a one-two to the body and finishing high.

Ali leaned just enough to make it miss, then fired a straight right that landed flush down the middle. Damon felt his head snap back slightly. He gritted his teeth and moved again, refusing to stop.

They traded jabs now, testing range, both men standing center ring. Damon's strength showed. His jabs landed heavier, pushing Ali back. But Ali's shots were faster, cleaner, and constant.

By the time the round ended, Damon's chest rose steadily, his mind already analyzing. Ali's control of distance was something no system could simulate without perfection.

As the bell rang again, Damon adjusted his mouthpiece and nodded.

And Mu Ali was the purest rhythm he'd ever faced.

And so he continued, going through the simulation again and again. Each time he reset, Mu Ali would be there, same bounce, same control, same impossible rhythm.

Damon kept testing his timing, changing his guard, his approach, his distance. But every exchange reminded him how far boxing's timing went beyond power or speed.

Eventually, he switched opponents. The system shifted, generating other legends, men with entirely different builds, different styles, different ranges. Some pressed forward with constant pressure, others stayed outside and countered every mistake. Damon fought them all.

He wasn't being dominated. He was landing clean, keeping balance, adjusting well. But every round, when the simulated judges' scores appeared, he lost. Some close, some wide. He wasn't getting outclassed, he was being outscored.

That was the part that bothered him. In MMA, control, pressure, and visible damage were everything. In boxing, it was rhythm, accuracy, and pace.

Even when he landed harder, they landed smarter. They knew which punches counted and which didn't. They knew when to touch and when to sting.

After hours of simulations, he paused to breathe. Sweat rolled down his neck, his knuckles sore from the repetition. He didn't feel frustrated, just aware. Boxing wasn't about proving who hit harder. It was about convincing the eyes watching that you were in charge.

He adjusted his gloves and reentered the program. This time, he focused on adapting, not to overpower, but to learn. He moved lighter, circled more, used less brute force. Every jab was measured, every step more controlled.

The system fighters were still winning rounds, but the difference was shrinking. Damon was learning the rhythm. He was starting to look less like an MMA fighter trying to box, and more like a boxer who could break the rhythm whenever he wanted to.