MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

The bell rang sharp, slicing through the Apex arena's low murmur as the two fighters stepped forward, Ivan Novak in the blue corner, Zernom Caige in the red.

Inside the commentary booth, the analysts leaned in as the round began.

"We've got Ivan Novak in the blue corner," Jim Logan began, voice steady, "and Zernom Caige, coming off that brutal win over Shara the Pirate, in the red. This one's been circling on the radar for a while."

Mike Brewer chimed in. "Ivan's got a hell of a base. Strong judo, dominant chain wrestling. He's one of the few prospects who can really control guys with body-to-body contact. But yeah, Jim, like we talked about, his striking is still a step behind. A little stiff. A little predictable."

Chris Dalton nodded from the side. "That's gonna be a problem against a guy like Caige. Zernom's awkward. He's not your clean-cut striker, but he's unpredictable, explosive. He's the kind of guy who'll throw a side kick and a spinning elbow in the same sequence, just to catch you slippin'."

"Exactly," Jim added. "Novak's key is the clinch. Get to the hips, get him down. But if he stays outside for too long, he's gonna start eating damage."

The fighters began circling.

Caige kept a bounce in his step, switching stances loosely while Novak stood square, tight guard up, eyes focused. A low leg kick landed early from Caige, fast, snapping, then he spun off to the left before Novak could even blink.

"See that?" Chris said. "Already touching him early. If Ivan doesn't close the distance, he's in for a frustrating round."

Back in the cage, the pressure was already building.

Zernom flicked out another low kick, trying to test range, but Ivan didn't flinch. His shoulders rolled with tension, but there was no hesitation. Instead of rushing a takedown like everyone expected, he stepped in with a tight jab. Then another. Both landed clean.

"Wait a second," Chris Dalton muttered. "That was sharp."

Zernom tried circling away, still looking to set a trap, but Ivan stayed disciplined. No wide swings. No panic. Just clean pressure. He stepped forward again, doubling the jab and finishing with a short right cross that thudded off Zernom's cheek.

"Okay, okay!" Mike Brewer leaned in. "Those aren't desperation punches, he's sitting down on those shots!"

Zernom blinked, shook his head, then snapped out a body kick, too slow.

Ivan caught it mid-air, used it to step in, and slammed a right hook into his ribs before letting the leg drop. Zernom tried to retreat, but Ivan followed like a shadow. Left hook. Right straight. Jab. Jab. Uppercut.

Every punch found skin.

Zernom covered up and tried to swing wildly, his usual rhythm-breaking move, but Ivan slipped to the side and countered with a short elbow across the temple.

Jim Logan's voice cracked. "Where did this come from?! Ivan Novak is boxing him up!"

Zernom looked stunned. He tried creating distance with a front kick, but Ivan stepped right through it, parried the leg and drove a left hand flush into Zernom's nose. Blood snapped out instantly.

And Ivan didn't stop.

He threw a tight, basic 1-2, reset his feet, then launched a body shot and came back up with a sneaky overhand.

Zernom's head snapped back.

Then, BOOM.

A short right straight directly on the chin.

Zernom froze.

His hands dropped.

His legs locked.

Then he crashed to the canvas like a statue tipped over.

Flat. Cold. Out.

The arena erupted.

The referee dove in, waving it off immediately as Ivan stood over his opponent, breathing heavy but composed.

Jim Logan's voice finally cut through the chaos. "Are you kidding me?! Ivan Novak just knocked out Zernom Caige, with his hands!"

Mike Brewer laughed in disbelief. "They said he couldn't strike! Said he was one-dimensional! That wasn't just good, that was textbook, clean, violent boxing. Pressure, timing, accuracy. That was a clinic."

Chris Dalton added, "The striking looked basic, but it was so efficient. Zero wasted movement. Every combo had a purpose. He didn't just beat Zernom at his own game, he dominated it."

Ivan walked calmly to the center of the cage, raising one hand in a composed gesture toward the crowd. He dropped to one knee, head bowed briefly as he muttered a short prayer under his breath, his chest rising and falling with steady breath. A few seconds later, he stood back up.

His corner rushed in behind him. His team, stone-faced but proud, clapped and shouted encouragement in their native tongue. There was no excessive celebration, just the kind of energy that came from seeing hard work pay off.

He had heard the talk. That he was just another grappler. Strong wrestler, weak hands. The usual type. The type that got figured out.

But that wasn't who he wanted to be.

He'd spent months drilling striking. Thousands of repetitions. Footwork. Distance. Composure. He didn't want to be predictable. He didn't want to be limited. And more than anything, he didn't want to be a stepping stone.

The last champion had been dominant, but one-dimensional. And Damon Cross tore through him with sharp striking and unshakable control.

Ivan had watched. Studied. Understood.

If he wanted to survive in this era, he couldn't settle for being equal.

He had to be better.

The match immediately picked up traction online—not just because of Ivan's stunning knockout, but because of who he beat. Zernom Caige was well-known, flashy, explosive. A highlight machine. Seeing him get shut down so decisively, and in the one area he was supposed to dominate, sent waves through the community.

What added more fuel was Ivan's background. People started putting it together. Same camp as the lightweight champion. Same coaching, same structure, same grueling system that bred elite fighters. That alone raised eyebrows.

Posts flooded Chirper and forums.

Some praised the evolution.

"Ivan looked clean tonight. That striking looked drilled, not improvised. Would love to see him against a ranked guy."

"Dagestani boys sharpening their hands now too? That's scary."

But of course, as always in MMA discourse, simplicity took over few fans.

If you were bald, Russian, and had a beard? Fans already assumed you were a destroyer.

"Give him Damon. Let's see if that champ survives round one."

But despite the noise, most weren't talking about Damon as an equal.

They didn't mention his name as a counterpoint. It was all about the next wave, the threat, the new challenge.

No one was disrespecting Damon. They just weren't thinking of him in the same sentence.

They saw an impressive fighter and wanted him tested.

Tested by the ranked. Tested by war.

They hadn't earned the right to mention Damon Cross yet.

He had to work for it.

If he was hungry enough.