MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

They settled in quickly.

The hotel was high-end, tucked into the heart of Singapore's skyline, with all the privacy Damon needed to focus.

Fight week came with its usual chaos, media, obligations, weigh-in, but he made sure to keep his mornings free.

Each morning, he woke early, ate light, stretched, then shut the door to his room. He lay down, let the world fade, and entered the simulation.

Inside his system's training interface, the arena adjusted itself to match the conditions of the upcoming bout, same lighting, same canvas texture, same cage size.

Joren Edlen stood across from him, or at least a perfectly modeled replica of him based on all available footage, data, and tendencies.

Damon had tested multiple scenarios.

He opened with heavy kicks. Another round, he played from the backfoot.

In one simulation, he pressed hard with pressure, drawing out Joren's reactive double-leg.

In another, he played a clinch-heavy game to see how quickly he could wear down the wrestler's posture.

He watched for cracks, timing flaws, lazy exits, uncommitted level changes.

The AI version of Edlen didn't make it easy. He was mobile, durable, technically sound. But Damon adapted.

Even in a simulated match, he was collecting data, learning which attacks left him open, which sequences could create dominant scrambles, which rhythms gave him the edge.

After a long set of rounds, he finally exited the sim.

Sweat beaded on his brow as if he'd actually gone through it.

He sat up in his hotel room, breathing deep, stretching his arms across his knees.

It was a good fight. Joren wasn't a clown. But Damon knew where the difference would be—and it wasn't just power, speed, or gas tank.

He had two more defenses lined up in middleweight after this.

Then the next part is light heavyweight. He couldn't wait to put on some weight.

The day finally arrived.

The ceremonial weigh-in went smoothly, without drama or trash talk. Both fighters made weight, stood for photos, and walked off.

The crowd still roared when Damon stepped on stage, his name carrying enough weight on its own.

Unlike most MMA cards, this event had no undercard buildup.

It was more like a boxing-style showcase, one fight, and only one focus, and then the arena would empty.

There was no supporting cast. Just two men carrying the entire event.

Damon didn't mind.

In fact, he preferred it.

The odd thing was, despite the size of this stage, none of the previous year's champions had returned to defend. Not the flyweight, not the lightweight, not even the heavyweight.

It seemed they just focused on their careers, I guess it wa valid, as the three of them were already seen as the best.

The arena was full, wall to wall with fans from every corner of the world. Flags waved. Chants echoed. The energy was undeniable.

Backstage, Damon stood quietly in the prep room, his hands wrapped and shoulders loose.

He watched the live broadcast on Joey's tablet, eyes fixed on the screen as camera shots panned across the roaring crowd.

He hadn't expected this.

The venue looked like it was built for something mythic.

The way the lights flared, the chants built, and the cameras zoomed in on excited fans—this wasn't just a tournament final. This felt like a coronation. Or a passing of eras.

Joey nudged him. "You seeing this, man? You're the main event. They didn't come for the belt. They came for you."

Damon didn't answer right away.

He just kept staring at the screen, watching fans hold up signs with his name, photos of past knockouts, and shirts with the Irish flag and gold trim.

He finally exhaled, a slow breath through his nose.

"It feels... big."

"Pause."

Joey laughed. "But, it is big. This is what legends fight under. The lights, the noise. And maybe that's what this is. Maybe it's a legend walking in next."

He kept hyping him up, watching the screen. "Look at that crowd. You'd think the president showed up. They came for you, D."

Damon smirked, stretching his neck. "Alright, get off your knees and wipe your mouth."

Joey rolled his eyes and smacked the back of his head. "Say less. That was the last compliment you're ever getting from me."

Victor stepped in, followed by a few of the other coaches, including two from the national team in Ireland.

Notably missing was Tommy Hughes, the old-school purist with a voice like gravel and opinions older than tape wrestling.

No one said anything, but Damon was quietly relieved. He respected the man's time in the game, sure, but there was only so much "back in my day" wisdom a man could take before a title fight.

Victor tossed a gym bag across the room. "Alright, suit up. No more waiting. Their team's already locked in. Let's run through the strategy one more time before we head out."

Damon caught the bag and nodded. "On it."

He turned, heading into the side room to change. The arena was shaking with energy outside, but in here, it was just business.

Damon pulled the gear over his shoulders and stood in front of the mirror, taking in the uniform.

The gold shimmered softly under the lights, trimmed with green and white lines that curved around the edges.

On one side, bold orange lettering read "IRELAND," and on the other, clean block letters spelled out "CROSS." It was regal without being flashy—exactly the tone he wanted to set.

His gloves weren't the solid-gold UFA championship ones.

These were mostly white, with subtle gold designs etched around the wrists and fingers.

He held them for now, waiting until his hands were wrapped.

Once he stepped out of the room, his team had already gathered in the warm-up area. Victor sat on a folded chair with a clipboard on his lap, legs wide.

The Irish coaches were crouched nearby with one of the assistant grappling coaches, while another from his striking circle leaned against the wall tapping his foot.

Everyone quieted for a second when Damon reentered, then Victor spoke up.

"Alright," he said, pointing the pen at the board, "we already know the plan, but I want clean eyes and clean ears now. No second-guessing, no changing shit on the fly unless we tell you. Everyone good?"

One of the Irish coaches nodded, his voice thick with accent. "We've seen what Joren does under pressure. He keeps his frame low when he shoots, and he chains into rides fast. Best to pop him with uppercuts when he levels."

Another added, "Don't bite on the first level change. He sells them with shoulder drops, but he doesn't commit unless you flinch."

Damon sat down beside them, stretching his legs out, listening carefully.

The striking coach spoke next. "Don't stand at the edge of his jab. He resets his feet quick. Pressure him inside his range—he's not used to being crowded when he's still setting the pace."

Victor nodded at that. "Right. Cut his rhythm early. Damon, you'll lead with kicks to the calf or body, whatever keeps him reactive. But no overcommitting early—we want data, not chaos."

Damon finally chimed in. "What about when he tries to smother?"

The grappling coach spoke up. "Bait him into the clinch, make him overuse his underhooks, then rotate out and rip. He won't expect elbows in the break."

Victor flipped a page and pointed again. "Three rounds or five, you don't chase. Let him be first. If he wants to be smart, punish his reads. If he wants to be aggressive, punish his risks. But we don't get reckless."

Everyone nodded in sync, the energy focused and sharp but not tense.

This was a room of professionals, and more importantly, it was a room full of people who knew exactly what Damon could do.

Victor folded the clipboard closed. "Good. Wraps next, then warm-up. Let's bring this one home right."

Damon leaned back against the wall, exhaled slowly, and closed his eyes for a moment.

The game plan was solid. Now, it was almost time to make it real.