MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Damon stood alongside three other middleweights.

It wasn't a large group, just four fighters in total, but that only made things more personal. With so few competitors, every match would count.

The official stepped forward, clipboard in hand, and the fighters' eyes locked onto him, waiting to hear their fate.

Three fights.

Three opportunities to prove who deserved to represent Ireland in the World MMA Tournament.

Damon scanned the faces of the other fighters.

Most were unfamiliar, but one stood out.

There was something Damon couldn't quite place but felt he'd seen before.

Despite the uncertainty, Damon's confidence was unshakable.

He wasn't concerned about who he'd face or how the fights would go.

He trusted in his skills, his preparation, and his ability to adapt. Continue reading at empire

He was here for one purpose, to win. And he wouldn't let anything stop him.

The official stepped forward, clipboard in hand, and began speaking.

"You'll all fight today," he announced, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

The fighters murmured among themselves, a mix of surprise and unease rippling through the group.

The sudden announcement had caught most of them off guard, but Damon simply shrugged.

Unprepared fights didn't faze him.

It wasn't the first time he'd been thrown into the deep end, and it likely wouldn't be the last.

The official continued, "And remember, all fights will be recorded. That's non-negotiable. It's part of the rules."

Damon noted the cameras around the room, quietly capturing every reaction.

This wasn't just a competition; it was a spectacle.

Every moment, every fight, every mistake would be on display for the world to see.

But none of it bothered Damon.

He thrived under pressure, and if the world was watching, then so be it.

Today was just another step toward proving he was the best.

The official cleared his throat and continued, addressing the fighters.

"While we understand that fighting without prior knowledge of your opponent might seem a bit unfair, this is deliberate. The national coaching team will be observing your fights closely, not just for the results but for how you perform under pressure and adapt to the unknown. This will help us determine the best representative for Ireland."

The fighters exchanged glances as the official looked down at his clipboard.

"Here's how it will work. Today, we'll have two fights, and the final one will take place tomorrow. The matchups are as follows:

The first fight will be Damon Cross versus Cillian O'Donoghue.

The second fight will be James Phillip versus Ruairí MacKenna.

The winners of today's matches will face each other tomorrow in the final. The winner of that bout will represent Ireland and move on to face a fighter from another country in the final stage of qualification for the World MMA Tournament."

He looked up at the fighters. "Are we clear?"

Everyone nodded in agreement, their faces a mix of determination and tension.

"Good," the official said. "Damon Cross and Cillian O'Donoghue, you're up first. You have one hour to prepare. Head to your assigned locker rooms and get ready. Good luck."

Damon didn't waste any time. He gave a nod to Victor, who patted him on the shoulder as they made their way to the locker room.

Damon and Victor entered the locker room, the air cool and quiet, with no one else present.

It didn't bother either of them.

Damon didn't need a crowded corner or a team buzzing around him to feel ready.

In fact, he thrived in these situations.

The fewer distractions, the better.

Victor leaned against the wall, watching Damon calmly stretch and shadowbox.

"You've got this. Just do what you do best."

Damon nodded, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Matches like this didn't faze him.

The lack of preparation or knowing his opponent's style wasn't a disadvantage, it was an advantage.

With Damon's ability to both grapple and strike, he was ready for anything.

Whether his opponent wanted to trade punches or try to wrestle him to the ground, it didn't matter.

Damon had all the tools to dominate, and he knew it.

The real edge, though, was psychological. His opponents wouldn't know what to expect.

Would he start with strikes, keeping them guessing with his precise stand-up? Or would he drag them into deep waters with his grappling?

For Damon, the answer was simple, it didn't matter.

As much as he respected every fighter who stepped into the cage, none of these competitors were on his level.

They weren't UFA-caliber, and they definitely weren't at championship level.

And the live audience watching thought the same.

Victor's voice broke the silence. "You ready?"

Damon rolled his shoulders and nodded. "Always."

It was time to show why he was the clear choice to represent Ireland.

Damon stepped out of the locker room, now fully changed and ready to make his mark.

He wasn't wearing his usual UFA fight gear, those tight shorts emblazoned with the promotion's logo were off-limits here, but he'd still managed to make a statement.

His signature green shorts, with his name and the bold lettering "CrossEra" running down the side, left no doubt about who he was.

"CrossEra" wasn't just a phrase; it was a movement.

Fans had adopted it as the defining tag in every post about Damon, a symbol of his rise and dominance in MMA.

To them, Damon didn't just compete, he owned this era of the middleweight.

Victor walked beside him, a quiet yet steady presence, but the real focus was all on Damon.

He exuded confidence with every step, his calm demeanor signaling that he was more than ready for what lay ahead.

The walk toward the cage felt different, but Damon liked that.

As he stepped into the cage, the referee positioned himself between the two fighters. His voice was firm but unceremonious.

"Damon Cross. Cillian O'Donoghue." He nodded to each of them.

"Here are the rules. No illegal strikes, no unsportsmanlike conduct.

Protect yourselves at all times. Fight clean, and stop when I say stop. Are we clear?"

Both fighters nodded, their eyes locked on each other.

"Good. Begin."

With that, the match was underway, swift and to the point, just as the organizers had intended.