MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Chapter 422: No Holding Back

As soon as the referee signaled for the fight to continue, both fighters rushed ahead. There was no more doubt. No more plans. Pure, strong aggression.

Niklas, despite his clearly compromised arm, swung first, a stiff right hand that cracked against Demaien’s jaw.

Demaien barely flinched.

He fired back immediately, a sharp left hook that sent Niklas stumbling for a moment, but he refused to back down.

The two young warriors stood toe to toe, planting their feet and letting their fists fly.

Irish Commentator: "Oh, they’re just standing in front of each other! This is madness!"

Polish Commentator: "Technique is out the window! It’s all heart now!"

Niklas threw another wild right hook. Demaien ate it and returned fire with a brutal uppercut, snapping Niklas’s head back.

The Polish fighter spat out, but his eyes burned with defiance. He gritted his teeth and came forward again, swinging with recklessness.

The crowd was in a frenzy.

Niklas was still moving, but the signs of wear were undeniable. His left arm barely lifted, and every time he tried to use it, his movement looked unnatural.

His punches were now mostly one-handed, but he made up for it with sheer ferocity.

Demaien pressed forward, his confidence surging.

A heavy right cross landed flush, and for a second, it looked like Niklas would go down.

But instead, he grunted, shaking his head, and fired back a looping right hand that smashed against Demaien’s cheek.

The Irish fighter stumbled but planted his feet again, gritting through the pain.

Then, something changed.

Demaien let out a deep breath and stepped forward, arms loose, his stance relaxed, almost too relaxed.

Irish Commentator: "Oh, what’s this? Ncguygan’s changing something up here."

Polish Commentator: "He’s taunting him! He’s daring Lebrowski to keep coming!"

The bell finally sounded.

Both fighters went limp at the same time, completely drained. The referee stepped in, pulling Demaien off Niklas.

The Irishman rolled onto his back, chest heaving, staring at the bright lights above.

It was over.

The cage doors slammed open, and the Irish team rushed in. No celebrations, no smiles, this wasn’t over yet.

Demaien barely had the strength to stand, his body wrecked from the war.

His legs wobbled, his breathing was ragged, but the team dragged him to the cage wall and let him slump against it.

His arms draped over his knees, head tilted back, chest heaving.

Damon was already on him, twisting the cap off a water bottle and pouring it over his head without asking.

The cold splash jolted Demaien’s senses, and before he could react, Damon shoved the bottle into his hands.

"Drink," Damon said simply.

But Tommy Hughes wasn’t giving him time to recover. He stormed over, shoving past another cornerman and crouching in front of Demaien, eyes wild, voice rough.

"Listen ’ere, ye feckin’ madman," Tommy barked, slapping Demaien’s knee. "I dunno what in God’s name that last exchange was, but ye better pray the judges saw it right."

Demaien coughed, half-drinking, half-spitting out the water.

Tommy leaned in closer, his thick accent making every word sound like a challenge. "Ye let ’im land too much! Had ’im feckin’ hurt, and what’d ye do? Brawled like a street lad! Ye out of yer damn mind?!"

Demaien blinked, still trying to catch his breath.

Tommy shook his head, rubbing his bald scalp aggressively before pointing toward the officials. "If we lose this feckin’ match, ye better hope it’s from a robbery ’cause if it’s not—" He cut himself off, growling.

Victor finally stepped in, placing a firm hand on Tommy’s shoulder. "Alright, Tommy, that’s enough."

Tommy huffed but backed up, pacing behind the team, hands on his hips. "Feckin’ shite. We shoulda had that clean."

Damon, still crouched next to Demaien, exhaled through his nose. "You did good," he muttered, quieter than Tommy but just as serious. "Now we wait."

The entire arena held its breath as the judges finalized their decision.