MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

In the backroom, Damon finished putting on his fight attire, adjusting the waistband of his shorts as he looked into the mirror.

His eyes traced the name on his pants, Whittier Team, stitched proudly above the UFA logo.

But it wasn't the team name that made him pause, it was that logo. UFA.

He stared at it for a long moment, letting it sink in. He was here. Really, really here.

The realization hit him harder than any punch he'd ever taken.

All the years of grinding, the countless sacrifices, and the pain of those early days, it had all led him to this moment.

It wasn't just any fight, it was everything he had worked for was coming together in that one fight.

Two years ago, he had been on the streets with his mother, scraping by, fighting in backyards just to survive.

That day… that fateful day when he got knocked out.

He lost a match, but in return, he gained something more valuable than he could ever have imagined, the system.

Since then, his life had flipped upside down.

He had gone from a nobody to someone who was now standing on the verge of something big.

Something life-changing. And now, as he stood here, it finally began to set in.

He was making his dream come true, not just for himself but for his mother, for all those hard nights they'd endured together.

Damon's thoughts drifted to the first autograph he'd ever signed, for that kid he'd met in Stockton.

'Stockton', he thought, a small smile creeping onto his face. It felt like a lifetime ago.

He missed it in a way, the gritty streets, the rawness of it all. But he wasn't that same kid anymore.

He'd come too far to look back now.

He shook his head, pushing those thoughts aside. This wasn't the time for nostalgia.

He needed to focus, to get his head in the game. The moment was too big to let his mind wander.

Turning back to the mirror, he exhaled deeply, clenching his fists, trying to center himself.

He looked at his reflection, at the strong, disciplined fighter staring back at him.

'This is it', he told himself. Experience tales at m-vl-e-mpyr

This is where it all begins.

With a deep breath, Damon continued hyping himself up, feeling the energy build inside him.

His body was ready, his mind was sharp, and now… now it was time to show the world what Damon Cross was made of.

Damon stepped out of the backroom and entered the locker room, where the rest of the team was sitting.

Even though they looked calm, he could tell that their eyes were still full of excitement.

Whittier glanced at Damon with a raised eyebrow and a smirk on his face.

"Took you long enough," Whittier said, crossing his arms. "Thought you were having cold feet for a second there."

Damon laughed, shaking his head. "Never," he replied with confidence.

He glanced at his coaches, ready for any last-minute advice. "Any tips or advice before we head out?"

Whittier leaned forward, his expression becoming more serious. "You've got all the tools, Damon, just remember what we worked on. You're taller than Logan, so use your reach. If you control the distance, you control the fight."

Another coach chimed in, nodding in agreement. "Yeah, you've got the length. Keep him at the end of your jab, and don't let him close that distance. Logan's probably looking to take you down, especially with that wrestling background of his. Keep him away from you, don't give him what he wants."

Whittier tapped his chin thoughtfully, then added, "And mix it up. Don't be predictable. You've got Muay Thai, the art of eight limbs, show him that. Start off with your usual low kicks, soften him up, but don't linger on them for too long. Switch it up. Use your punches, elbows, knees.

Make it hard for him to guess what's coming next."

Damon listened carefully, soaking in the advice like a sponge.

Another coach stepped forward, placing a hand on Damon's shoulder. "Stay sharp, stay light on your feet. You've trained for this. You know what to do. Just trust yourself, keep him guessing, and don't give him any room to work."

"Got it," Damon said, locking eyes with Whittier. "I'm going to control that distance. I'll stay unpredictable."

Whittier smiled, giving Damon a firm nod. "Good. Now go out there and show everyone why you're here."

A lot of people were excited in the big room. The cage was set up in the middle, and lights from above lit it up.

On either side, the two teams sat in their respective corners, wearing their colored shirts, Team Chemasov in red and Team Whittier in blue each side a sea of contrasting colors.

Logan had just finished his entrance, pacing around inside the cage, bouncing on his toes with a smug grin plastered on his face.

The room's energy spiked as the door swung open for the next entrance.

All eyes turned toward Damon, who stood tall, Team Whittier's shirt hugging his frame as he made his way toward the official.

His coaches trailed closely behind him.

The sound of clapping and whistling filled the room as his team rallied behind him, offering encouragement.

Music thumped faintly through the room, matching the rhythm of his heartbeat.

Damon kept his eyes on the path ahead and took slow, deliberate steps.

He could feel the pressure, kept his nerves in check.

As he approached the official, he pulled off his shirt, revealing his lean, chiseled physique.

He handed the shirt to one of his coaches without a word.

The official stepped forward, giving him a quick nod before beginning the pre-fight checks.

"You got your mouthguard in?" the official asked, eyes scanning over him.

Damon nodded, showing the mouthguard briefly before clenching his jaw back down.

"Cup in place?" the official continued, tapping Damon's waist lightly to signal the check.

"Yeah," Damon replied firmly.

With a quick motion, the official dipped two fingers into a jar of Vaseline and smeared it over Damon's cheekbones and brow.

The grease shined under the bright lights, ensuring there'd be less friction for cuts during the fight.

The final touch of preparation.

"All set. Go get 'em," the official said, giving him a pat on the back.

Damon gave a subtle nod and turned toward the cage. As he walked forward, the noise from his team grew louder.

The cage door opened, and the metal clanged, welcoming him inside the octagon.

He stepped over the threshold, his muscles loose but primed, every step bringing him closer to the center.

He couldn't hear anything else now, no music, no crowd, just the quiet hum of focus in his mind as he made his way to his corner.

It was game time.

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