MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Damon stalked forward, his face unreadable, his movements fluid. Jon's forehead was bleeding a lot, and the cut was getting worse every second.

His footwork was slower, his balance was off, but he still had determination.

Damon tested him with a jab, light but precise, forcing Jon to react. The Polish fighter instinctively raised his guard, but Damon saw the gaps.

He stepped in, feinting high, then buried a sharp right hand into Jon's liver.

Jon grunted, his entire body tensing from the shot. His stance wobbled.

Damon didn't let him recover.

A left hook wrapped around Jon's high guard, smacking into his ear. The moment Jon tried to adjust, Damon whipped a leg kick to his compromised lead leg, forcing him to shift awkwardly.

Jon backed up, his arms tight against his body, trying to defend, but Damon had already closed the gap.

He stepped in, elbow slicing through Jon's guard. The strike opened the cut further, blood spilling down Jon's face. The Polish fighter blinked rapidly, trying to clear his vision.

Damon didn't give him time.

A lightning-quick inside trip.

Jon's legs were yanked from under him, and he crashed to the mat.

Damon immediately followed him down, securing top position with effortless control.

He flattened Jon out, locking his hips down while posturing up just enough to rain down elbows.

One.

Two.

Three.

Each shot landed with surgical precision, smashing into Jon's forehead.

The referee warned Jon to defend.

Jon tried to turn, looking for an escape, but Damon adjusted instantly, transitioning to a crucifix position.

Jon's arms were trapped. He couldn't move.

Damon lifted his elbow high, then brought it down clean.

Jon's body jolted.

Another elbow.

The referee stepped in, watching closely.

Jon struggled, but his body betrayed him. His arms weren't responding.

Damon drove down one last elbow.

The referee jumped in, waving it off.

It was over.

Damon released the position immediately, standing up as the Polish fighter lay on his back, dazed, his face smeared in blood.

The medics rushed in, tending to Jon, while Damon took a step back, breathing steadily.

No wild celebration. No taunts. Just quiet dominance.

The Irish fans erupted in cheers. The Polish crowd booed, frustrated at how one-sided the finish had been.

Irish Commentator: "That was as clinical as it gets! Damon Cross didn't just win, he dissected him!"

Polish Commentator: "That was a masterclass in patience and execution. Jon never even got a chance to recover."

Damon turned toward his corner, where Victor and Tommy Hughes were waiting.

Tommy smirked. "See? Told ye to take him down."

Damon finally allowed himself a small nod.

Jon, still sitting on the stool as the medics finished cleaning him up, looked up at Damon as he approached.

His face was swollen, the cut on his forehead sealed for now, but the blood on his skin and the bruises forming told the story of the fight. His nose was clearly broken, slightly shifted to the side.

Damon extended his hand.

Jon dapped him up, shaking his head with a tired but amused smirk.

"You hit like a truck, brother."

Damon chuckled, nodding.

Jon exhaled, cracking his neck slightly. "That was good. Very good. But next time, maybe don't elbow my face so much, yeah?"

Damon smirked. "No promises."

Jon laughed through his busted lip, wincing as he wiped some lingering blood from his eyebrow.

"Good fight, man. Enjoy the win, but don't get too comfortable. You'll see me again."

Damon gave him a respectful nod before stepping away.

For all the damage done, for all the blood spilled, there was no bad blood here.

Just two fighters.

And one victor.

Damon had to admit, Jon might have been his biggest challenge in pure striking. While he managed to put him away and dominated most of the fight, it wasn't as one-sided as his usual performances.

Jon had moments, real moments, where he made Damon work, forced him to adjust. It was a rare thing, and Damon respected it.

This fight only fueled his excitement about testing himself in light heavyweight someday. When? He didn't know. But after this, he was sure he'd be back in that division eventually.

And just as Jon had said, those elbows.

Damon never used as many elbows in a single fight as he had tonight.

The way they cut through Jon's guard, the way they forced openings instead of waiting for them, it was something he hadn't fully embraced before. But now? Now, he understood.

Elbows weren't just supplementary weapons. They were fight-ending weapons.

And that crucifix sequence in the end? That had sealed the deal.

Damon flexed his fingers, looking at his hands. He had always known he was a complete fighter. But tonight, he had added another layer to his game.

One that was truly dangerous.

The announcer stepped into the cage, microphone in hand, as the referee grabbed Damon's wrist, ready to raise it. One of the national coaching staff draped a large Irish flag over Damon's shoulders, the green, white, and orange colors standing out under the bright arena lights.

The crowd buzzed with anticipation as the announcer lifted the mic.

"Ladies and gentlemen, referee has called a stop to this contest at 3 minutes, 42 seconds of Round 2, declaring the winner by TKO…"

He paused, turning toward Damon.

" THE UNDEFEAEEEEEETEDD!!!! DAMON CROSS!"

The arena erupted. Irish fans roared in celebration, chanting Damon's name, while Polish fans let out a mix of frustrated groans and scattered applause.

Damon stood there, calm, as the referee raised his arm. The Irish flag rested on his back.

Damon stood there with a smile, soaking in the energy of the crowd. 16-0. His undefeated record remained intact, and this was no small win. His resume was growing, and this was another statement victory.

The referee let go of his wrist, and Damon turned to his corner. One by one, he hugged the coaching staff, then turned to Victor, embracing him as well.

"Thanks," Damon said, his voice low but sincere.

Victor gave him a firm pat on the back. "You earned it."

Tommy Hughes chuckled from the side. "Aye, not bad at all. But ye still owe me a finish in the first round one of these days."

Damon smirked but didn't say anything. They all knew he fought on his own terms.

Without wasting time, they left the cage. Unlike in the UFA, this tournament didn't have post-fight interviews inside the cage.

No mic shoved in his face, no questions when his adrenaline was still settling. Instead, everything would be handled before the next fight.

Damon felt that was better. More time to rewind, relax, and reset.

As they made their way backstage, a staff member walked up to him.

"You'll need to do an interview before the next fight," they said.p

Damon gave a small nod. "Fine by me."

That was something to think about later.

For now, he wanted to breathe.

The moment they stepped further into the back, Svetlana was already waiting.

She hugged Damon tightly, her arms wrapping around his torso like she had been holding her breath the whole fight.

"You looked great out there," she said, her voice warm but firm.

Damon nodded. "Thanks."

She pulled back slightly, scanning his face. No real damage, just the usual redness from taking a few shots.