MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 846: The Line Between Caution And Fear

"ONE!"

The referee's voice echoed through the arena as he pointed toward Blake, who lay flat on his back, blinking rapidly. Damon stood in his corner, calm, gloves resting by his chest, his breathing steady.

"TWO!"

Blake turned slightly, one arm reaching for the rope. His legs shifted, but they didn't seem to listen. The crowd roared louder, half of them screaming for Damon to finish it, the other half urging Blake to get up.

"THREE!"

"He's hurt bad!" one commentator said. "That uppercut nearly took his head off. He's not steady!"

"FOUR!"

Blake planted a glove on the mat, trying to push himself upright. His face showed it all, confusion, pain, disbelief. The shot had come from nowhere.

"FIVE!"

He made it to one knee, blinking hard, his mouth open as he tried to breathe. Damon watched from across the ring, expressionless.

"SIX!"

"Blake's trying to stand! He's got heart, but that punch… that landed clean. He still looks dazed."

"SEVEN!"

Blake's corner yelled for him to get up, pounding on the ropes. He grabbed the middle rope, pulling himself higher, legs trembling.

"EIGHT!"

He was standing now, but barely. The referee stepped forward, holding Blake's gloves, staring straight into his eyes.

"NINE!"

Blake nodded quickly, insisting he was fine, but his balance told a different story.

The referee hesitated, then waved it on.

"He's up! He beats the count!"

The crowd erupted again, half in awe, half in shock. Blake stumbled back into stance, his gloves up but his focus still blurry. Damon's gaze sharpened. He tilted his head once, a faint smirk crossing his face as he stepped forward.

"This might not last much longer," one commentator said. "If Damon lands another clean one, it's over."

Blake steadied himself after the count, but the damage was obvious. His legs were stiff, his guard shaky.

Sweat dripped from his chin as he blinked rapidly, trying to find focus again. Damon stayed loose, bouncing on the balls of his feet, his eyes fixed on every movement.

When the referee waved them back in, Blake circled wide, refusing to meet Damon head-on.

His steps were uneven, his left foot dragging slightly each time he turned. He flicked his jab, but there was no weight behind it, just enough to look busy, to keep Damon guessing.

But Damon wasn't guessing. He'd already read him.

Each time Blake threw, Damon slipped just out of reach, closing the distance inch by inch.

His head weaved in small motions, his shoulders rolling with rhythm. Every movement was calm, controlled, and deliberate.

"Cole's on his back foot now," one commentator said. "He's being careful, trying not to take another big shot."

Careful was an understatement. Damon could see it, the way Blake's eyes flicked from his gloves to Damon's feet, searching for safety that wasn't there.

His breathing was sharp and uneven. He was fighting on instinct now, not strategy.

Damon jabbed high, forcing Blake to raise his guard, then shifted his weight and landed a heavy hook to the body. The sound echoed through the arena like a drum. Blake's expression tightened as air rushed out of him.

He backed away fast, throwing a wild right hand that Damon ducked under easily.

Damon stepped in, touched him with a short jab, then another to the ribs. Each strike made Blake more desperate, his form breaking with every retreat.

"Cross is walking him down. He's not letting him breathe," another commentator said.

Blake's gloves trembled slightly as he tried to reset. Damon kept closing the space, crowding him into the ropes again.

The look on Blake's face said it all, a mix of frustration and fear. His smile was gone, replaced by silence and shallow breathing.

Damon's eyes didn't leave his. He could see it, the panic, the hesitation, the small twitch before every move. That half-second delay that came when a fighter stopped believing he could win.

Blake tried to jab and pivot away, but Damon cut him off with a left hook to the ribs that folded him slightly.

He stumbled sideways, trapped near the corner. Damon didn't rush. He waited, hands high, watching for one mistake.

Blake exhaled hard, threw another wide swing, and Damon slipped under it cleanly. He stepped inside, body low, his left shoulder brushing Blake's chest.

Then he exploded upward.

A short right uppercut ripped through Blake's guard, catching him flush on the chin. His head snapped back violently, and his body lifted half an inch off the ground before collapsing flat onto the canvas.

The crowd erupted instantly. Flashlights flickered. The sound was deafening.

"Massive shot! Damon Cross just knocked him out cold!"

Blake lay motionless, one glove twitching before falling still. The referee rushed in, waving his arms, but it was over before the count even began.

Damon stood above him, calm, breathing steady, the same composure he had walked in with.

He didn't celebrate yet. He simply looked down once, then turned toward his corner.

Victor shouted, "That's how you finish it!" while Joey jumped up, yelling in disbelief. Damon raised a single glove toward them, the faintest hint of a smile breaking through.

The commentators spoke over the chaos. "That's as clean as it gets! Cross set him up perfectly, patient, composed, and lethal. He read every move, broke him down, and ended it with a single shot."

Medical staff entered the ring, kneeling beside Blake, who was still flat on his back, his chest rising slowly. Damon stayed near his corner, watching quietly, his gloves resting against the ropes.

He had proven his point without needing words.

Damon grabbed a water bottle from his corner and twisted the cap off, taking a slow sip as he watched the medics kneeling over Blake.

The crowd was still roaring, the replay flashing across the big screen above the ring, that same uppercut from three angles.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his glove and exhaled. This had been the easiest fight of his life. Out of all the matches he'd been in, cage, ring, or gym, none had ever felt this one-sided.

He replayed the rounds in his head, searching for a moment where he might've been hit clean, but nothing came to mind. If Blake had landed anything, it hadn't been worth remembering.

It almost didn't feel like a fight. More like a reminder of how far apart they really were.