MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Damon nodded to the official as he finished his pre-fight check.

Vaseline was wiped across his cheeks, his gloves were secured, and the final inspection was done.

With that, he turned and approached the cage.

Stepping onto the stairs, he crouched low, walking on all fours as he climbed up, his movement animalistic.

It was something he had done before, a motion that felt instinctual, a sign that he was ready to hunt.

As soon as he entered the cage, he stood up, locking eyes with Jon Dlachovizc.

The Polish fighter stood tall on his side of the octagon, his face unreadable.

But Damon didn't blink.

He didn't look away.

This was it. No more buildup. No more waiting.

Just a fight.

Damon and Jon Dlachovizc stood across from each other.

Same height.

Same weight, on paper.

But Damon was staring at a former light heavyweight champion.

A man who had spent years fighting bigger, stronger opponents. He wasn't just facing another middleweight.

He was facing a powerhouse.

The cage was closed. The crowd was electric.

And then, the commentators kicked in.

One was Irish, the other Polish, both speaking English, but their accents distinct.

The Irish commentator spoke first, voice booming with excitement:

"And here we are, folks! Ireland versus Poland! Two warriors facin' off in the middleweight division, fightin' for the right to represent their country on the biggest stage in combat sports!"

The Polish commentator followed, his voice carrying that unmistakable deep, rolling accent:

"Yes, and what a matchup we have! Jon Dlachovizc, former champion, a man who has tested himself against some of the biggest names in the sport, now lookin' to prove he belongs in this new generation of fighters."

The Irish commentator jumped back in. "But standin' in his way is Ireland's own, Damon Cross! Undefeated! A man many are already callin' the next great Irish fighter! This lad has stormed through the middleweight division in UFA, and now, he's got the chance to put his name on the world stage!"

The Polish commentator wasn't backing down.

"But the question is, can he handle a man like Jon? Experience, power, toughness. Dlachovizc has seen it all, and he knows how to win ugly. Cross may be the new wave, but Jon has been in deep waters before."

The Irish commentator responded quickly.

"That's fair, but let's not pretend Cross is some untested kid! This man's knockout of Landon Ellan was one of the most vicious finishes in UFA history! And his grappling? He just submitted James Phillip, and that was barely a fight!"

The Polish commentator chuckled. "Ah, but this is not James Phillip, my friend. This is Jon Dlachovizc. And if Cross wants to win, he will need to fight a perfect fight."

The Irish commentator didn't hesitate. "A perfect fight, eh? Well, if there's anyone who can deliver that, it's Damon feckin' Cross."

Inside the cage, Damon and Jon never broke eye contact.

No words. No gestures.

Just the silent, unshaken focus of two fighters who knew what was about to happen.

The referee stepped forward.

It was time.

The crowd buzzed with anticipation as the announcer stepped forward, microphone in hand.

His voice was steady, clear, and professional, marking the gravity of the moment.

He took a deep breath and began.
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"Ladies and gentlemen, this bout is scheduled for three rounds in the middleweight division!"

A wave of cheers erupted through the arena as the announcer turned toward Damon first.

"Introducing first… fighting out of Ireland!"

The Irish crowd roared in response.

"Standing at six feet, two inches tall, weighing in at 185 pounds… with a professional record of fifteen wins, no losses…

DAMON CROSS!"

The Irish fans erupted. The arena shook with chants, the energy reaching a fever pitch.

Damon remained composed, his focus locked onto Jon.

The announcer then turned toward Jon.

"And his opponent… fighting out of Poland!"

Polish fans responded with their own deafening support.

"Standing at six feet, two inches tall, weighing in at 185 pounds… holding a professional record of twenty-eight wins, five losses…

JON DLACHOVIZC!"

Polish fans cheered wildly, their chants filling the air.

The announcer stepped back.

"Your referee in charge… Mark Beltran."

The referee stepped forward, looking at both fighters.

"Gentlemen, you know the rules. Protect yourselves at all times. Follow my instructions at all times.

If you want to touch gloves, do it now."

Neither Damon nor Jon moved.

No touch.

Just cold, unshaken focus.

The referee nodded and stepped back.

"Fighters… are you ready?"

Damon nodded.

Jon nodded.

"LET'S FIGHT!"

The bell rang.

And just like that, war began.

"And the match begins!"

Damon settled into his stance, his posture relaxed yet coiled, ready.

Across from him, Jon Dlachovizc took his familiar orthodox stance.

Shoulders squared, hands high, eyes locked onto Damon with cold focus.

From Damon's corner, Tommy Hughes' voice boomed over the roaring crowd.

"REMEMBER WHAT I SAID, LAD! KEEP MOVIN'!"

Damon didn't react. Didn't nod.

He just blocked out all sound.

His world narrowed.

Just him. Just Jon.

He stepped forward. Slow. Measured.

Jon did the same, keeping his weight balanced, his stance solid, just as he always did. He never rushed forward recklessly. He was patient.

Damon knew this was how Jon always started. He liked to feel his opponent out. He didn't throw wild shots.

He pressured, waited, and countered with power.

Damon wasn't going to play into that.

He took another small step forward. Then another.

Jon followed the rhythm, matching the pace, waiting.

Damon feinted a jab. Jon didn't bite.

So Damon lifted his leg and snapped a low kick toward Jon's lead leg.

THWACK.

But before it could land clean—

Jon checked it.

SHIN TO SHIN.

A sharp, bone-crunching sound echoed through the cage.

Damon felt it immediately.

A deep, dull pain reverberated through his leg, straight to the bone.

Jon barely flinched. His shin had taken worse before.

But Damon's shins had been through hell.

The pain registered, but it didn't shake him. Thailand had hardened him for this.

He lowered his leg smoothly, resetting his stance like nothing happened.

Jon's expression didn't change. But he knew.

Damon wasn't some green fighter who'd hesitate after a checked kick.

Damon just smirked slightly, rolling his shoulders.

Then, he stepped forward again.

The fight was just beginning.