MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

In Jon's corner, his team worked quickly. The cutman pressed a towel hard against his temple, but the wound was stubborn, still leaking as they wiped it clean. His coach leaned in, speaking rapidly in Polish.

"Zacząłeś dobrze, ale potem oddałeś kontrolę." (You started well, but then you gave up control.)

Jon sat upright, breathing steadily, but his frustration showed in the way he flexed his fingers.

"Cross jest szybki, ale to nie znaczy, że jest niepokonany. Trafiłeś go w nogę kilka razy, rób to dalej. Zabierz mu mobilność." (Cross is fast, but that doesn't mean he's untouchable. You hit his leg clean a few times, keep doing it. Take away his movement.)

The cutman kept working, but the blood still seeped through. His coach glanced at it but didn't hesitate to continue.

"Jeśli chcesz go obalić, nie rób tego bez przygotowania. Nie siłuj się w klinczu na siłę. Uderzaj, zmuszaj go do myślenia, a potem schodź w nogi." (If you want to take him down, don't force it. Don't waste energy in a clinch battle. Strike, make him react, then shoot.)

Jon spat into the bucket, rolling his neck. His coach patted his shoulder, firm.

"On cię nie znokautował. Więc wstań i zabierz mu tę walkę." (He didn't knock you out. So get up and take this fight from him.)

Across the cage, Damon sat calmly on his stool, arms resting on his thighs. Blood streaked his chest, not his own, but Jon's. That last exchange, when Jon had pressed forward, had smeared it across his skin. Victor poured a little water over his head, then leaned in.

"Good work, but don't get comfortable," he said, voice low but sharp. "He's going to push harder this round. Expect more kicks, maybe even a takedown attempt."

Damon nodded, rubbing his gloves together, staying loose.

"Keep dictating the fight. Don't let him get set. Make him react to you, not the other way around."

Before Damon could respond, Tommy Hughes stepped in, hands on his hips.

"Ah, feck that," he scoffed. "Take him down, lad. Don't strike, end this fight now."

Damon blinked, his usual smirk flickering.

"Ye can strike if ye want, but keep movin'. Don't stand there and trade. That's how ye let him back in."

He tapped Damon's leg twice, his voice lowering.

"Use yer head. This is yer fight to finish."

Damon exhaled, looking across the cage. Jon was still on his stool, rolling out his shoulders, his cut still dripping faintly.

The ten-second clapper sounded.

Damon pushed himself up.

It was time for Round 2.

Both fighters stood up as their corners exited the cage. Jon's cut was already leaking again, the work between rounds barely holding up.

Irish Commentator: "And there it is again, the blood is already dripping. That cut is gonna be a problem if this fight goes on much longer."

Polish Commentator: "Jon is tough, but that's in a bad spot. Cross won't ignore it."

The referee stepped forward, looking at both men.

"Fight!"

Damon and Jon took their stances. They met in the center, tapping gloves before immediately resuming the war.

Jon was the first to act, throwing a heavy leg kick.

Damon read it instantly.

Instead of checking, he leaned back, just enough for Jon's kick to whiff past him.

And the moment Jon's foot swung through empty air, Damon struck.

A brutal leg kick of his own, timed perfectly.

It landed flush on Jon's planted leg before his other foot could touch the ground.
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Jon's balance collapsed. His leg gave out, and he hit the mat, tripping hard onto his side.

The crowd erupted.

From the Irish corner, Tommy Hughes' voice boomed.

"End it, lad! FINISH THE FIGHT!"

Damon took a step forward, then stopped.

He didn't rush in. Didn't try to pounce for ground and pound or a submission.

He just waited.

Jon pushed himself up, shaking off the impact, his expression unreadable.

The commentators took notice.

Irish Commentator: "Ohh, now that's interesting! There's a bit of a disagreement in the Irish corner, Tommy Hughes was screamin' at Cross to finish the fight, but he's lettin' Jon stand back up!"

Polish Commentator: "That's a dangerous decision. Cross had a perfect chance to go for the finish, and he let it slip. Would you call that confidence… or arrogance?"

Irish Commentator: "Arrogance? Ah, I wouldn't say that yet. But he's definitely makin' a statement. He wants this fight to keep goin'."

Jon rolled his shoulders, stepping back into his stance.

Damon nodded, resetting his own.

The fight wasn't over yet.

Damon advanced, each step measured, his body coiled like a spring. Jon steadied himself, rolling his shoulders, his breathing controlled but his stance less sure than before. He was still dangerous, but Damon had felt the shift.

Jon wasn't dictating the fight anymore. He was reacting.

Damon didn't rush. He flicked a probing jab toward Jon's guard, testing his reflexes. Jon didn't bite, his hands staying tight, his chin tucked.

Damon threw another, slightly harder, making Jon take a half-step back. Then he followed with a right straight to the body.

Jon exhaled sharply on impact, absorbing the shot, but Damon was already layering his attack. A jab. A right hand. Then another. Each one forced Jon to adjust, his movements slowing, his defense less sharp.

Damon feinted, shifting his weight forward, watching. Jon tensed, his body reacting before his mind did, flinching just slightly.

That was all Damon needed.

He snapped a crisp one-two combination. The jab found its mark, Jon's head snapping back. Before Jon could reset, the right hand followed, a straight shot that landed flush on the chin.

Jon stumbled backward, his balance completely lost. His legs faltered, and he crouched down instinctively, hands behind him, trying to regain stability.

The crowd erupted.

Irish fans roared, sensing the finish. Polish fans booed loudly, frustration echoing through the arena.

Jon was in trouble.

And Damon smelled blood.

His stance shifted, his entire posture changing.

He wasn't looking for clean shots anymore, he was hunting.