MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 534: AAANNNDDD!!! s..

The triangle was locked, and Balim wasn't giving an inch. His body shifted subtly, angle adjusting again, just enough to tighten the choke without wasting energy. His hands pulled PDD's trapped arm tighter across his body while his hips stayed elevated. It was surgical.

PDD gritted his teeth. His legs stomped against the canvas for balance. He was resisting, but his movements were growing sluggish.

The champ wasn't one to panic. His style was unorthodox, unpredictable. But this was pure control. A vice closing around his neck.

He tried to posture again, lifting, stacking, but the blood was already slowing. His free hand dug into Balim's ribs. He shook his head like he was trying to will his way out. But there was no space.

From the side, the strain was clear in PDD's face. Veins pushing against skin. His jaw clenched tight. He tried one more desperate pull of his arm, but Balim only tightened the grip.

The crowd saw it now. The fight was slipping.

Jon Goodman called it, voice rising, "He's stuck! That's deep! If he doesn't tap, he's going out!"

Marvin Duke added, "And you know PDD, he's too damn stubborn to tap."

And he was. Even as the lights dimmed, even as his legs stopped kicking, he never reached to tap. His hand twitched once.

Then it went still.

The referee moved in quick, dropping to check. One hand lifted, no resistance.

He waved it off.

Balim released the choke and sat up, chest rising and falling with controlled breaths.

The crowd exploded.

Jon's voice rose over the roar. "Balim Chemasov! Submission win in round four! The belt is his!"

PDD lay on his back, eyes fluttering as the med team came in. Consciousness returned in seconds, but so did the disappointment. He'd gone out on his shield, no tap, no quit. Just silence.

Balim stood, arms raised, chest marked with sweat and scrapes. The new middleweight king.

Balim stood over PDD, chest heaving, jaw clenched. For a second, he didn't move, just stared down at the still figure of the man he'd just choked unconscious. The reality hit fast.

He let out a roar, primal and raw, slamming both fists into his own chest before raising them skyward. His face didn't crack into a full smile, but his eyes were wild, his body surging with adrenaline.

His corner sprinted into the cage, two of his coaches yelling in Russian as they tackled him in a tight embrace. One lifted him off the ground while the other pounded on his back with pride. They were screaming, fists raised, shaking the fence as the crowd screamed behind them.

Balim pushed back slightly, paced in a quick circle like a predator still in motion, then climbed halfway up the cage wall, one knee hooked over the top as he pointed toward the crowd, yelling something unintelligible, raw emotion pouring from him.

His team followed, arms raised beside him, a flag thrown from the crowd landing near them. One of his coaches picked it up, draping it over his shoulders as Balim dropped back down to the mat.

He didn't strut. Didn't dance. He just stood in the center, breathing hard, hands back on his hips.

He had just choked out the champion.

And he knew exactly what he'd done.

Deuce Baffer stood at the center of the cage, microphone lifted, as the noise in the arena settled just enough to hear the official announcement.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN… REFEREE MIKE FERNANDEZ HAS CALLED A STOP TO THIS CONTEST AT FOUR MINUTES, EIGHTEEN SECONDS OF ROUND NUMBER FOUR!

DECLARING THE WINNER BY SUBMISSION…

AAAAND NEEEEWWWWWWWWWW!!!

UFA MIDDLEWEIGHT CHAMPION OF THE WORLD…"

As the crowd began to rise in anticipation, Ronan Black stepped forward, already holding the glimmering gold.

"BALIM 'THE WOLF' CHEMASOV!!!"

Right as the name echoed through the building, Ronan wrapped the belt around Balim's waist.

The roar from the crowd hit like a wave.

Balim threw both hands into the air, eyes shut, and let out a thunderous scream that shook the rafters.

His team jumped the cage, shouting, hugging, swarming him with pride and joy.

He turned slowly, soaking in the moment.

The belt gleamed under the arena lights.

This wasn't luck. This wasn't hype.

This was real.

This was earned.

This was his era.

The crowd buzzed as Balim stood in the center of the cage, the gold wrapped snugly around his waist. His team surrounded him, lifting him, slapping his back, yelling in every language they knew. Coaches, cornermen, brothers in arms, they celebrated like it was war and they'd just claimed the throne.

Balim grinned wide as he pulled free, still breathing heavy, sweat dripping off his brow. He turned to Ronan Black, the president of UFA, and extended his hand. Ronan shook it firmly, offering a short nod and a smile, before stepping back and letting the moment belong to the fighter.

The chants of "Che-ma-sov! Che-ma-sov!" echoed through the arena.

Down by the broadcast table, Jon Goodman unclipped his headset, stood up, and made his way to the cage. The camera followed as he entered through the open gate, microphone in hand, walking with a mix of respect and energy.

The crowd stirred again, anticipation building.

Balim turned to face him, still catching his breath. The lights above them burned bright, and the entire arena waited to hear what the new champion had to say.

Jon Goodman stepped up beside the newly crowned champion, microphone in hand, and raised his voice over the roar of the crowd.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I am here with the new UFA Middleweight Champion of the World, Balim Chemasov!"

The crowd erupted. Balim paced once in a circle, raising the belt with one arm, his chest heaving, eyes wide. His coaches yelled behind him in Russian, and he slapped his chest with both hands.

Jon smiled, then brought the mic up.

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"Balim, first of all, congratulations. That was a war. You just submitted the reigning champion in the fourth round. How do you feel right now?"

Balim took the mic with a smirk, voice loud, thick with accent, full of adrenaline.

"I FEEL GOOD, BROTHER! I TELL YOU, I SMASH HIM! I SMASH EVERYBODY! I COME FOR THIS BELT, I TAKE IT! I AM THE KING NOW! I TOLD YOU, I TAKE EVERYTHING!"

The crowd roared again. His face was flushed, his eyes wild.

Jon nodded. "You showed patience early, then flipped the switch in the later rounds. What was the game plan tonight?"

Balim grinned, breathing deep.

"Plan always same, I pressure! I make them tired. He strong, awkward, but I make him work. When he tired, I take him down. He have no answer on ground. Nobody do what I do! I train for this all my life! I'm born for this!"

Jon raised an eyebrow.

"And now that you're champion, what's next for Balim Chemasov?"

Balim snatched the mic again and turned toward the nearest camera. The crowd leaned in.

"I TELL YOU WHAT NEXT! DAMON CROSS!"

The arena popped. Gasps. Shouts. Some cheers, some boos.

"I SEE YOU, BROTHER! You win your fight, but I see holes! You strong, you fast, but you no fight someone like me! You never feel pressure like me! You want this belt?"

Balim raised it high above his head.

"COME TAKE IT!"

He pointed straight into the lens, sweat flicking from his fingers.

"I wait for you, Damon! No run, no hide! LET'S GO!"

The crowd roared again.

Jon turned to the camera with a grin. "You heard the man. Balim Chemasov, your new UFA Middleweight Champion, and he wants Damon Cross next."

Balim threw both arms up, yelling once more to his team, as the arena shook with noise.