MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Coconut Creek, Florida.

The sun was already high, but inside American Peak Team's training center, the air was thick with heat, sweat, and pressure.

Joren Edlen stood in the center of the mat, shirtless and already drenched. His gloves were taped tight, mouthguard hanging from his jaw as he bounced in place.

His coach, a lean, sharp-eyed man with years of wrestling and fight experience, held the pads. He tapped the left one twice.

"Jab. Cross. Hook. Power hook. Double it up."

Joren nodded and snapped into motion. The first jab cracked, fast and clean. Cross followed, then a hook. Another hook. All with the same clean rhythm that had won him fifteen straight.

"Again!" the coach barked.

He went again. Faster this time. The sweat flew from his skin with each turn of his hips. His footwork stayed tight, circling to the left, cutting back to the right.

The coach dropped one pad low and extended the other.

"Break the angle. Power shot. Then level change."

Joren stepped wide, angled off, and blasted a left straight into the pad, then ducked low. His shoulder dropped into position.

The coach didn't give him time to reset.

"Shoot now! Deep! You're not waiting for a green light—take it."

Joren shot forward with power, hands locked fast around the coach's thighs, driving his shoulder just above the knee line. He lifted and turned, running the finish, putting the coach on his back with a clean takedown onto the crash pad.

"That's it!" the coach shouted, slapping the mat. "Clean entry. Commit like that every time!"

Joren stood, breathing hard, resetting his stance.

"I want more pace. You're facing a pressure fighter. You can't hang back like it's Tokov. You control. You dictate. You break his frame before he sets it."

He nodded, already circling back in.

The coach tapped the pad again.

"Back to stand-up. Cross, liver hook, feint takedown, then throw high. If he sprawls, you go under. If he covers, we cut the angle."

Joren snapped into motion. Cross. Liver hook. He dipped low, showing the level change, then exploded up with a left high kick.

"Better!" the coach shouted. "You do this for five rounds, he's going to drown trying to keep up. Damon doesn't lose because he gets hurt. He loses if you beat him to the tempo."

Joren reset, wiping his brow. His eyes stayed sharp.

The gym was loud—other fighters hitting pads, corner drills, grappling partners trading reps. But he barely heard them.

Everything was focus now.

Everything was Damon Cross.

The man holding the title didn't just fight with power. He fought with layers, range control, trap setting, tempo shifts, all buried in that clean technique.

But Joren wasn't intimidated. This was the level he had been building toward since the start.

He had passed every test.

Now came the final.

"Again," he said, stepping forward, gloves ready. "Let's go."

With only a few days left until the fight, anticipation was climbing fast. Promos aired across every network, media outlets ran full breakdowns, and fans took to Chirper in droves, debating the outcome.

The official face-off was scheduled for the next morning.

Joren Edlen was walking in as the complete underdog.

The odds made that clear, he wasn't even close to a 50/50. Most sportsbooks and analysts favored Damon heavily.

He was the champion, the proven name, the man with highlight finishes, title defenses, and the global spotlight.

But still… people were watching Joren.

Because despite the lopsided odds, nobody could deny that he was skilled. Undefeated. Smarter than most. And durable. He didn't give up position. He didn't rush. He didn't make mistakes.

He was the kind of fighter who could frustrate a striker, drag a war out, and maybe, if things went his way, steal rounds.

That was the talk online. If Joren was going to win, it wouldn't be with a knockout or submission.

It would be with patience, position, and precision. It would have to go the distance. And it would have to go through the judges.

But Damon Cross had heard it all before.

And he wasn't planning on leaving it to anyone.

He'd never liked the judges, and that wasn't going to change now.

Damon trained to finish fights. Always had. Even when it didn't happen, it was never for lack of trying.

His style was pressure-based most of the time, but precise. He didn't brawl unless it was the right time. He didn't stall.

And above all, he didn't trust three people at cageside to decide what he'd bled for.

That's why this fight, like all the others, had one goal.

End it.

He didn't care that Joren was undefeated. He respected the record, but not enough to play chess for five rounds. If the guy could survive the pace, then fine. Let him. But Damon wasn't here to wrestle to a decision.

He was coming to break him.

And until that cage door shut, there was nothing else to focus on.

.

.

.

The flight was long, but Damon didn't complain. He used the hours to stretch, sleep, and focus.

When the plane finally touched down in Singapore, he stepped out into the heat and humidity with a quiet breath.

It was beautiful, sharp skyscrapers rising above traditional shophouses, modern tech meeting deep culture. He stood still for a moment outside the terminal, letting the air hit his face.

It reminded him of Thailand.

He hadn't been there in years.

Not since his he rose up in UFA, when he'd stayed in a small camp tucked between jungle and city outskirts.

Two coaches there had changed everything. They taught him what it meant to strike with control. To pace. To hurt. He'd already known how to punch and kick, but they gave him Muay Thai.

And Muay Thai had shaped him.

The elbows. The low kicks. The clinch.

Even now, it defined his rhythm.

Every time he entered the cage, you could see it, how he framed with forearms, how he timed knees to entries, how his sweeps stayed sharp.

He'd learned boxing, kickboxing and Taekwondo later on, but Muay Thai sat at the core of his game.

He adjusted his bag and walked toward the hotel van waiting for his team.