MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 570: Striking Spectacle

"Ready?" he asked Ivan.

Ivan gave a single nod, his stance unchanged.

"Ready?" he asked Sharim.

Sharim bounced once on his toes and raised his hands.

The referee dropped his arm. "Fight."

The bell rang, and everything began.

Both fighters bounced lightly as the bell rang.

Ivan's stance was compact and composed, chin tucked, eyes sharp. Sharim moved loose and springy, faint smile on his face, hands low, shoulders relaxed.

They met at the center, tapped gloves, and backed up.

Sharim fired first, quick lead sidekick to the body, sharp and snappy. Ivan took it without reaction and stepped forward behind a probing jab.

"Sharim looking loose right away," one commentator noted. "That kick was fast."

Ivan cut the distance with short steps, staying patient. Sharim circled, throwing a pair of feints, shoulder twitch, then a quick switch-step into a spinning heel kick.

"Whoa! Spinning early!" the other shouted. "That was close."

Ivan blocked it with his forearm and shot in for a clinch, but Sharim slipped out before the grip could lock.

"Good scramble," the first commentator said. "Sharim's not easy to tie down."

Ivan stayed on him. Jab-cross, low kick, then level change. Sharim sprawled, hips fast, and fired a knee up the middle that glanced off Ivan's shoulder.

"Sharim's doing well with the movement," the second analyst said. "But Novak's not biting. He's just walking him down."

Sharim circled again, keeping his rhythm unpredictable. He slid left, then darted forward with a quick one-two, slipping out before Ivan could counter.

The shots touched Ivan's gloves, but Sharim wasn't trying to knock him out yet, he was measuring.

Ivan stayed calm, staying just outside of kicking range. He watched. He absorbed.

When Sharim fired another sidekick, Ivan stepped in and jammed it with his shin, answering with a stiff jab to the face that snapped Sharim's head back.

"Novak finding the mark there," the commentator said. "That jab landed clean."

Sharim grinned and fired back with a spinning backfist. It missed, but not by much. Ivan ducked under it and fired a hook to the body, then moved off the angle.

"That's the difference right now," the second analyst said. "Ivan's not reacting, he's reading. He's letting Sharim throw, then countering clean."

Sharim reset, bounced once, then shot a head kick out of nowhere. Ivan blocked, but the power was real. The sound echoed.

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"Oh!" the crowd roared.

Sharim moved in now, switching stances mid-combo. Right hand lead, spinning low kick, feint into a flying knee.

Ivan covered up tight, absorbed the knee on the guard, and pushed forward, jab, cross, hook. Basic combinations, but sharp. The third one landed, catching Sharim near the jaw.

Sharim stepped back, wiped his lip, and threw a sidekick again, this time higher, clipping Ivan's ribs.

Back-and-forth pace. No one backing down.

Then came the shift.

Ivan stepped in with a jab, but instead of following up with another strike, he grabbed the wrist and pulled Sharim into a collar tie, classic clinch. He landed a knee to the thigh, another, then transitioned to an outside trip.

Sharim fought it, balancing on one foot, elbowing the side of Ivan's head.

"Great balance from Sharim!" the commentator yelled. "Most guys go down there!"

Ivan released the trip and ducked under, clinch-breaking with a short elbow on the exit. Sharim spun out and fired a right hook that barely missed.

Back to range.

Now they were both bleeding, Sharim from the lip, Ivan from a cut near the brow from that elbow.

Sharim wiped his face, bounced again. His movements got sharper, more aggressive. He fired a triple jab, then a question mark kick. The last kick grazed Ivan's temple, but he stayed planted, firing back with a 3-2 combination, hook, then straight.

They both landed.

The crowd exploded.

"They're standing and trading now!" the analyst shouted. "This is becoming a striking war!"

Sharim bobbed low and came up with a hook. Ivan parried it and cracked a short right down the center. Then another jab. Then a body shot.

Sharim winced for the first time.

Ivan smelled it and stepped forward, another jab, another straight. Sharim circled away, but Ivan cut him off and launched a short right uppercut.

"Novak's pressure is real," the commentator said. "He's walking him down like it's personal."

Sharim snapped back with a spinning wheel kick, this one landed on the neck.

Ivan stumbled but didn't fall. He shook his head, stepped right back into range, and fired a leg kick.

They were both breathing heavy now, still standing, still dangerous.

Sharim launched a double jab, then slid into a short elbow off the lead. Ivan ducked under it and answered with a right hand that cracked flush on the cheek.

Sharim staggered back.

Ivan stalked forward.

Another jab. Another straight.

Sharim fired wild now, spinning everything. Spinning back kick. Miss. Spinning backfist. Grazed.

Ivan didn't blink. He threw one jab. Then another. Then slipped the counter and dug a hook to the liver.

Sharim folded slightly.

Ivan stepped in, grabbing him again.

Clinch. Knee. Short elbow. Drag-down.

Sharim fought to stay up, and he did.

Back to space again.

Both men now bruised, cut, and bleeding.

The buzzer sounded.

End of Round 1.

The crowd was on their feet.

"WHAT a round!" the commentator roared. "We're watching a striking masterclass from two completely different schools of thought, and neither of them is giving an inch."

"Forget rankings," the second one said. "That was amazing. Both of them came to make noise tonight."

In their corners, neither man spoke much.

Sharim just exhaled and nodded as his coach iced his neck.

Ivan sat still, breathing through his nose, eyes locked on the opposite side.