MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Round two began as both fighters came off their stools, their corners emptying out of the cage.

Damon leaned forward slightly, his eyes sharp. Max Taylor's right arm wasn't moving the same.

It wasn't limp, but every time he raised it, Damon could see the slight hesitation in the shoulder, the stiffness in the extension.

That armbar Kenji had thrown up wasn't perfect, but it had done damage.

Max rolled the shoulder once as he took the center, his face set hard like nothing was wrong.

Fighters lied with their bodies more than their mouths, Damon thought. He wasn't going to admit he was hurt, but the evidence was there.

"Hopefully it doesn't become a problem for him," Damon thought, his arms folding. "But that's unlikely."

Max was aggressive by nature, and an aggressive fighter with one arm compromised had two choices, hide it and mask the weakness, or use creativity to disguise it and make the opponent second-guess.

Damon wanted to see which one Max leaned toward.

Kenji, for his part, had sharp eyes too. He wasn't flashy, but he was disciplined.

If he picked up on the weakness, he'd start targeting it without mercy.

Damon could already picture Kenji probing with jabs, forcing Max to block with that arm, chopping calf kicks to make his base even weaker.

The first exchange came quickly. Max pumped a left jab, quick and snappy, then circled to his right.

His right hand stayed chambered tight, more like a club waiting to unload than a free tool.

Kenji's gaze flicked down at it once, his calm mask never breaking.

Damon narrowed his eyes, curious. Max was reckless on his best day, but here? If he wanted to keep winning, he'd need to show more than power. He'd need to show craft.

And Damon leaned forward just a little more, waiting to see what kind of fight this second round was about to turn into.

Damon leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, eyes locked on the cage. He wasn't watching as a fan would—he wasn't lost in the thrill or the pace. Every movement was broken down, dissected. He wanted to see how Max would solve the problem of that arm.

And Max didn't disappoint.

The American came out moving sharp, his lead hand pumping like a piston. Jab upstairs. Jab to the body. Jab feint into a front kick that smacked Kenji's stomach.

He was layering his offense, disguising the lack of his right hand's activity by doubling, even tripling his lead work.

"Smart," Damon thought. "He knows Kenji's reading him. He's selling the illusion."

Max stepped in with a flying switch knee, not fully committing but enough to push Kenji back a step.

Instead of following with a right cross, something Kenji was waiting for, Max pivoted hard, fired a spinning back kick that slammed into the ribs.

The sound echoed across the canvas.

Kenji absorbed it, but Damon saw his eyes flicker. Max had hidden the weakness well so far.

He was throwing everything else,kicks, elbows, lead hooks, spinning strikes. His creativity was covering the injury.

But Kenji wasn't just standing there.

He stayed calm, his breathing even, and every time Max reset, Kenji poked the jab.

Nothing wild, nothing wasted, just that steady piston snapping at Max's face and chest. He wasn't trying to win exchanges, he was testing the guard.

And Damon noticed it right away. Kenji's jabs were drifting to the right side.

"Yeah, he sees it now," Damon muttered under his breath.

Kenji stepped in again, feinted low, then popped a jab high. Max blocked, but the arm twitched. Not sharp. A second slower than it should've been.

Kenji's eyes narrowed. He popped another jab. Max caught it again, but the guard dipped.

Now it became a duel of wills. Max, stubborn as hell, refused to stop pressing forward.

He blitzed with a left hook, right kick to the body, then threw a spinning backfist with his left, awkward, but it landed enough to make Kenji circle out.

But Kenji wasn't biting into chaos. He was playing the long game.

Every time Max threw wild, Kenji answered with another precise punch to that right side, forcing Max to guard with the injured arm.

Each one chipped away, not just at the body, but at the mind.

Max fired a superman punch off his left, then dove into a body lock, muscling Kenji against the cage.

For a moment, it looked like he had neutralized the chess game, grinding his weight on Kenji's chest.

Kenji waited. He stayed calm. Then, with one sharp frame, he popped his shoulder free, slid to the side, and as Max disengaged, he hammered a clean right hand straight into the sore arm.

Max's face twitched in pain. Just for a second.

Max shook his head violently, gritted his teeth, and came forward again, refusing to show weakness.

He threw a back kick that barely missed, then a wild flying elbow that scraped Kenji's guard.

It was spectacular. It was reckless. But it kept him alive.

Kenji didn't panic. He circled, stepped back in, and snapped two jabs in a row, both thudding into Max's compromised side.

The chess match had turned. Max was still the showman, still explosive and wild, but Kenji was the scalpel, cutting away at the one place that would eventually take the storm out of him.

And Damon watched it all, nodding slowly.

Kenji came out harder this time, abandoning the calm patient style that had carried him early.

He pressed forward with sharp combinations, jab, cross, hook, every shot angled toward Max's compromised right arm.

His low kick cracked the same leg, and before Max could reset, another jab snapped into his shoulder.

Damon's eyes narrowed. Kenji had flipped the script. "He's hunting him now."

Max shelled up, forced back a step, then another. Kenji ripped a right cross that glanced Max's cheek and followed with a left hook that smacked flush. Max stumbled, his back brushing the cage.

Kenji surged, unloading. Punches whipped around the guard, his tempo relentless, looking to break Max before the round got deeper.

But that's when Max's creativity came alive again.

As Kenji lunged in, overcommitting with a looping right, Max pivoted hard off the fence, slipped the shot, and whipped a short left hook over the top. It landed flush on the jaw.

Kenji's head snapped, his legs buckled. He crashed to the canvas, hands reaching instinctively.

Damon leaned forward, lips tightening. "There it is."

Max didn't hesitate. He dove on top, hammering with ground-and-pound. Hooks and elbows crashed down, Kenji scrambling to survive.

Then, with a desperate shift, Kenji rolled his hips and threw his legs up. His shin crossed Max's chest, his arm caught in Kenji's grip, an armbar attempt, slick and sudden.

For a split second, the cage froze. Kenji clamped back, wrenching with all his might.

But Max wasn't green. He didn't panic.

He stacked his weight forward, pressing Kenji's knees to his own chest, then yanked his trapped arm free with a violent twist.

He shoved Kenji's legs aside, slipping the trap.

Kenji tried to scramble, but Max was already a step ahead.

He postured high and rained down bombs, right hand, left hand, hammerfist, another right.

Each thudded sickeningly, Kenji's arms pawing at air, his guard crumbling.

Damon's jaw clenched as he watched the onslaught. Max was merciless, his fists pistoning down with raw fury.

Kenji curled, rolling to his side, but Max followed, pinning him with one forearm while his other hand unloaded.

The referee had seen enough. He dove between them, tackling Max off as another hammerfist was about to drop.

The cage echoed with the sound of the stoppage. Kenji lay on his back, dazed and bleeding, while Max climbed to his feet, chest heaving, face smeared with sweat and crimson.

Damon exhaled slowly, shaking his head. "Hell of a finish."