MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 571: The Ronin isn’t alone

Ivan didn't rush.

He cut the cage slowly, cornering Sharim, throwing sharp but controlled strikes. Jab. Cross. Hook to the body.

Sharim bounced off the side, spun again, this time a wheel kick that narrowly missed.

"He keeps going back to that spinning stuff," the commentator said. "But Novak's reading it better now."

Sharim tried switching it up, lead sidekick, then a dart in with a backfist.

Ivan parried the backfist and clinched.

That was the mistake.

Ivan locked him up, tripped him out of balance, and dragged him into the fence, not fully down, but enough to press him into the cage and control the hips.

"Smart adjustment from Ivan," one analyst said. "He's not hunting takedowns, but he's using the clinch to wear on Sharim's base."

Sharim dug for underhooks. Ivan pressed his forehead into the chin, threw two short knees to the thigh, then released, stepping back with a sharp elbow on the exit.

Back to striking.

Sharim's movements were a little slower now. Still sharp, still dangerous, but slightly more readable.

Ivan stepped in again. Jab. Jab. Cross.

Sharim slipped and threw a spinning hook kick.

This time, Ivan caught it.

He grabbed the leg and swept out the base, dumping Sharim to the canvas hard.

"Beautiful timing!" the commentator shouted. "Caught the spin clean!"

Ivan didn't dive in wild. He stepped over, took the leg, passed into half guard. Controlled. Measured.

Sharim held tight, framing the hips, trying to slide his back to the fence. Ivan kept him flat, peppered short shots to the body and ribs. Not trying to finish, just damage, slow him down, drain the clock.

"Novak's showing maturity here," one of the commentators said. "No rush. This is experience."

Sharim managed to get to his hip. Ivan stayed tight, threatening to pass, then stepped back up, forcing Sharim to stand.

They reset.

The pace slowed. The earlier storm of exchanges had faded into cautious rhythm.

Ivan held the center, pawing with the jab, cutting off the cage. Sharim circled, trying to find space, throwing single shots instead of combinations.

The commentary booth started to drift into analysis.

"Back to his striking," one of them said, "I think this is a good development. Considering who the champion is now, any fighter hoping to make a run needs to be dangerous everywhere. Ground, cage, or on the feet."

"I agree," the second replied. "I like specialists, there's something beautiful about watching a master at one thing. But nothing is more dominant than a fighter who can swim in any pool they want."

"Exactly. And strikers already struggle with grapplers. But now, when guys like Ivan start mixing it up like this? If they can box, even at a fundamental level, it changes the whole equation."

The analysis was cut short by a sudden yell.

"OH MY GOD!"

Sharim was on the mat, sitting, legs folded beneath him, hands planted behind him for support. His eyes were wide, still blinking.

In front of him stood Ivan Novak. Calm. Hands at his sides. He didn't follow him down.

Instead, he pointed.

The words weren't picked up, but the body language said it all.

'Get up.'

The arena lit up.

"Did you see that overhand?" the commentator shouted. "Ivan just launched that right hand like a hammer! Caught Sharim right on the cheek! That kind of power? That's a problem!"

Sharim shook his head and started to rise slowly, checking his footing.

He got to his feet slowly, eyes blinking as he adjusted his footing. The grin he wore was gone now. replaced by a tight, unreadable expression.

He raised his guard, but it was different. Hesitant. His rhythm was gone.

Ivan saw it.

He didn't rush. He feinted the jab, then stepped right with a small angle and fired a low kick. Sharim blocked it, but backed up two steps too many.

"He's rattled," the commentator said over the noise. "He's moving, but that composure's cracked."

Sharim threw out a fast lead hook, off balance. It missed by a foot. Ivan dipped, touched him with a jab, then followed it with a thudding kick to the inside thigh.

Sharim stumbled, caught himself, and pivoted off the cage.

Ivan stayed with him. Jab. Cross. Jab again.

Sharim ducked.

And that was the last mistake.

Ivan stepped in and snapped a left switch kick across Sharim's head. The sound was sharp, shin to skull, and Sharim's legs gave out instantly.

"Ohhh—"

"OH MY GOD!" the lead commentator exploded. "HEAD KICK! SHARIM'S DOWN!"

Sharim collapsed to his side, hand instinctively reaching for the floor, eyes glassy.

Ivan didn't hesitate like Sharim did, he instantly pounced on him to hammer him down.

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One. Two. Three hammer fists smashed down as the referee dove in to stop it.

"IT'S OVER! IT IS OVER!" the booth shouted over the roar of the crowd. "IVAN NOVAK JUST ENDED IT IN STYLE!"

The fans erupted, the arena shook.

Ivan stood, hands raised briefly before before going to his knees, burying his head for a second before rising again.

But the message had been sent.

Not just to the crowd or Sharim.

But to everyone in his division, especially the man waiting at the top.

The Ronin wasn't alone anymore.

There was another name knocking and coming closer.

Whether he was a threat time would tell.