MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 442 A Harsh Reality

Tommy Hughes was pacing back and forth in the corner, and you could feel how angry he was.

He spoke to Demaien, who was slouched on the stool and his chest rose and fell with each difficult breath. His sharp words did not hold back.

"That was pathetic!" Tommy barked, his Irish accent thick, his tone biting. "Yer supposed to be representin' Ireland, not givin' away rounds like a bloody amateur! What the hell are ye playin' at out there?"

Demaien looked up, his expression clouded with frustration and exhaustion.

He wasn't entirely out of the fight, but the weight of Tommy's criticism made him feel as though he was.

His personal team worked around him, pressing ice to his ribs and cleaning up a small cut above his brow, but they stayed quiet.

None of them dared to challenge Tommy, who was as respected as he was intimidating.

Without Victor there to balance things out, Tommy had full reign, and his words only grew harsher. "Barin's playin' chess while yer out there swingin' like a drunk in a pub! Where's the plan, eh? Where's the discipline? If ye don't start usin' that head o' yours, this fight'll be over before ye know it."

One of Demaien's coaches hesitated, clearly uncomfortable with the way things were escalating.

He glanced at Tommy but said nothing, opting to focus on adjusting Demaien's gloves instead.

Tommy leaned in, his voice low but no less intense. "Yer fightin' for the pride of Ireland, lad. Don't ye forget that. We don't need any more embarrassment after what happened with Collin. So get out there, keep yer hands up, and bloody fight like it means somethin' to ya."

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The buzzer sounded, signaling the end of the break. Demaien stood, his legs shaky but his expression hardening.

Whether it was from Tommy's words or his own resolve, something flickered in his eyes, a spark, faint but present.

As he stepped back into the octagon, the tension in the Irish corner remained high and heavy.

Tommy crossed his arms, his gaze locked on Demaien. "This better be different," he muttered under his breath, more to himself than anyone else.

The round began with the sound of the bell echoing through the arena.

Demaien moved cautiously out of his corner, his movements showing a slight hesitation, a result of the punishment he endured in the previous round.

The commentators quickly picked up where they left off, dissecting the fight as it unfolded.

"Demaien was overwhelmed in that last round," one said. "He's got to find his rhythm, get to a spot where he feels comfortable, and start landing clean shots. But more importantly, he has to avoid taking as much damage as he did earlier."

The other commentator chimed in. "Absolutely. Barin Darrez is a master at keeping his opponents uncomfortable. If Demaien keeps letting Barin dictate the pace, it's going to be a long, or rather short, night for him."

Back in the cage, Barin pressed forward with confidence, feinting and throwing precise jabs to keep Demaien guessing.

Demaien circled away, trying to stay just out of range, but his back was edging closer to the cage, a dangerous position against a fighter like Barin.

Barin threw a quick low kick, snapping against Demaien's calf, and followed up with a feinted overhand that drew a defensive reaction.

The commentators immediately picked up on it.

"Barin's doing what he does best," one said. "He's baiting Demaien into reacting to his feints, setting up the real shots."

"And Demaien can't afford to fall for it," the other replied. "He's got to stay composed, find his own opportunities, and not let Barin get too comfortable."

As the round progressed, Demaien tried to adjust, throwing out jabs to create distance and looking for openings.

But Barin's footwork was sharp, his head movement subtle yet effective, making him a frustrating target to hit cleanly.

"Demaien's struggling to land anything significant," one commentator remarked. "He's got to mix it up, faint some level changes, work the body, something to disrupt Barin's rhythm."

Barin, meanwhile, continued to chip away, landing another clean jab followed by a body kick that echoed through the arena.

Demaien winced, momentarily stepping back to gather himself.

The crowd's energy surged, sensing Barin's control over the round.

Demaien's corner shouted instructions, urging him to stay active and move off the cage, but Barin wasn't giving him the space to reset.

The round carried on, and the pressure on Demaien only seemed to grow. He needed something big, and he needed it fast.

Barin continued to pick Demaien apart with surgical precision.

His low kicks landed again and again, each one sharp and brutal, thudding against Demaien's already reddened leg.

The commentators picked up on the mounting damage as Demaien's movements grew slower, more labored.

"Barin's chopping away at that lead leg," one commentator said. "Demaien's got to do something, anything, to stop this. He's already limping, if this continues, he won't be able to move."

The other commentator added, "Even when he's trying to check those kicks, it's hurting him. Barin's precision and timing are making it impossible for Demaien to get comfortable."

Inside the cage, Demaien gritted his teeth as another kick crashed into his leg.

He attempted to check it, lifting his shin, but the sheer force of Barin's strike sent pain shooting through his body.

He stumbled slightly, his stance faltering. Barin didn't miss a beat, advancing with another quick jab and a feinted right hook that forced Demaien to react defensively.

The Irishman's movement became visibly hampered. His corner shouted at him to change the tempo, but the experience gap was showing.

Barin was in complete control, dictating the fight with his superior striking and composure.

Realizing he couldn't keep trading on the feet, Demaien made a desperate decision. He dropped his level, faking a jab to create an opening and shot in for a takedown. The commentators immediately took notice.

"He's going for the takedown," one commentator said. "This is smart, if he can get Barin to the ground, he might find a way back into this fight."

"But it won't be easy," the other countered. "Barin's takedown defense is rock solid, and Demaien's entry looks a bit telegraphed."

Demaien managed to grab one of Barin's legs, wrapping both arms tightly around it as he drove forward.

Barin reacted immediately, sprawling expertly and maintaining his balance.

He dug his forearms into Demaien's shoulders, forcing him to carry his weight and sapping his energy.

The crowd roared, sensing the battle within the clinch.

Demaien gritted his teeth, adjusting his grip and trying to transition to a single-leg takedown.

He lifted Barin's leg off the ground, shifting his weight to one side, but Barin maintained his composure, using his free leg to keep his base steady. Experience tales with novelbuddy

"Beautiful defense from Barin," one commentator remarked. "He's staying calm, using this to frustrate Demaien."

Demaien switched tactics, attempting to drive Barin toward the cage, but Barin used his underhooks to counter the movement, twisting his hips to break Demaien's control.

The Irishman was visibly struggling, his breathing labored as he fought for any advantage.

Barin saw his opportunity.