MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

The energy inside the arena was electric. Fans had filled every seat, the noise already deafening even though the fights hadn't started yet.

Backstage, Damon stood in his locker room, throwing sharp punches in the air as he shadowboxed.

He had just been informed of the night's fight order.

They were going from heavyweight to lightweight.

Which meant he was opening the event.

Damon Cross vs. Jon Dlachovizc.

It was a nerve-wracking thought.

He had never fought someone who spent the majority of their career at light heavyweight.

Even though Jon had cut down to 185, the power, the durability, those things didn't just disappear.

It was going to be a war.

Damon had already changed into his fight gear, his signature green shorts with orange-gold lines running through the sides.

The words "Cross Era" were stitched onto them.

Collin and Demaien were also suited up, though they still had some time before their fights.

They stood nearby, wearing pants and warm-up tops, watching as Damon moved.

Then, a voice called out.

"Damon."

He stopped and turned.

Tommy Hughes.

The head coach of the Irish national team.

A seasoned veteran in the fight game, older than Victor, with years of experience training elite fighters.

Tommy motioned for him to sit on the bench beside him. Explore more stories with My Virtual Library Empire

Damon did as he was told, wrapping a towel around his shoulders as he listened.

Tommy exhaled, cracking his knuckles before speaking.

"Listen, lad," he started, his tone firm but calm. "This fella ye're fightin'? He's big. He's strong. He's got power in those hands and legs. But ye already know that, don't ye?"

Damon nodded.

Tommy continued, his gaze sharp. "People think size is just about weight, but it's not. It's about the way a man carries it. Dlachovizc carries it like a feckin' tank. That's what makes him dangerous. He's used to bullyin' lads in there."

He leaned forward slightly, his elbows resting on his knees. "But that doesn't work against someone who knows how to move. Ye've got the speed, the footwork. Don't stand there and trade just 'cause ye can. That's what he wants. Big lads like him? They fight in bursts. Explosive, powerful, then they slow down."

Damon listened intently.

Tommy tapped a finger on his knee. "Here's what I need from ye. Make him work. Every second of that fight, make the bastard work harder than he wants to. Use yer feints. Pull him into shots. If he swings heavy, punish him. He's used to bein' the hammer. Show him what it's like to be the feckin' nail."

Damon smirked at that last line, nodding slightly.

Tommy clapped a hand on his shoulder. "And one last thing, if ye hurt him, finish him. Don't play with yer food. Don't let him recover. These big feckers, they don't like bein' on the back foot. If ye put him there, keep him there."

Damon took a breath, letting the advice sink in.

Tommy stood up, patting his shoulder once more. "Ye've got this, lad. Now go and show the world why they call it the feckin' Cross Era."

Damon grinned, standing up with him. "Will do."

With that, he turned back to his warm-up, his mind clear.

The fight was coming.

And he was ready.

Damon stood up, rolling his shoulders as he took a deep breath.

Back in his usual camp, with Victor and his team, everyone knew how he operated. They gave him space, trusting that he would do his own thing, that he didn't need to be micromanaged.

But here? This was different.

This was a national team. They expected him to listen, to follow instructions. He wasn't just fighting for himself, he was fighting for Ireland.

And to be fair, the old man had given solid advice. Tommy Hughes had years of experience, and every word he spoke carried weight. Damon knew when to listen.

Victor was standing off to the side, chatting with the coaching staff, casually observing. He had been in the game long enough to know this was Damon's moment. He wasn't going to interfere, not yet.

Then came a knock at the door.

One of the staff members walked over, checked, then turned back to the room.

They met Damon's gaze and said, "It's time to go."

The air in the room shifted instantly.

Damon nodded, adjusting his gloves. Without hesitation, he walked toward the door, and the entire team followed behind him.

They moved through the backstage corridors, the energy in the air growing heavier with every step.

Then, they reached the tunnel.

The last stretch before the cage.

They stopped there, waiting, the distant roar of the crowd filling their ears.

The vibrations of thousands of fans chanting, cheering, waiting for war.

Damon closed his eyes for a second, taking it all in.

It was almost time.

Music hit.

The arena erupted as Poland's Jon Dlachovizc made his entrance.

His walkout song? Poland's national anthem.

The moment the first note played, a wave of Polish fans roared in pride, singing along, their voices booming through the arena.

The energy was undeniable. They were here for war.

Damon stood in the tunnel, unmoved, his expression calm. He had expected nothing less.

Then, the music changed.

The Irish national anthem began to play.

And that's when the crowd truly came alive.

While Damon couldn't hear the anthem blasting through the speakers, he could hear something even better, the people.

Thousands of Irish fans stood up, belting out every word with everything they had.

The arena shook.

The sound of a nation behind him.

Damon exhaled slowly.

And then, he stepped forward.

It was time.

Damon finally stepped out of the tunnel.

And the moment he did, the world erupted.

The atmosphere was unlike anything he had ever felt before.

He had fought in the UFA, had been in high-profile events, had felt the energy of thousands of fans screaming his name.

But this?

This was different.

This wasn't just a crowd hyped for a fight. This was an entire nation behind him.

The noise was deafening.

The Irish fans were on their feet, chanting, roaring, singing.

The arena pulsed with their voices, their energy drowning out everything else.

As he made his walk toward the cage, fans stretched their hands out, hoping to get a touch.

Some reached for Collin NcGyver, who walked behind him, but it was clear, Damon was the one they were here for.

Not just a fighter.

Not just a competitor.

Their guy.

Damon kept his focus forward, walking with the same calm presence he always had.

But as he reached the edge of the walkout path, he stopped for just a moment.

He grabbed the hem of his training shirt, pulling it off in one motion.

Then, without hesitation, he tossed it into the crowd.

A surge of hands reached for it, a wave of bodies shifting as they fought to grab a piece of Damon Cross's moment.