MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

A loud roar came from the crowd as Damon came out of the tunnel. His music echoed through the arena.

Fans were chanting his name from every part of the place, which shows how quickly he had caught their attention.

"Here he is!" With a loud, excited voice, Demien Korvier yelled. "This kid, Damon Cross, fast hands, heavy hands, and he's just relentless. Jim, I've seen a lot of fighters, but this guy? He's special."

A tone of admiration came through in Jim Logan's words as he leaned forward. "Absolutely, Demien. Damon's got that rare mix of precision and power. He doesn't just throw wild shots, he picks his targets, and when he lands, you feel it. But let's not forget, tonight isn't going to be easy."

Demien nodded in agreement. "No, it's not. He's facing Mikal Tereira, a showman who's as unpredictable as he is dangerous. Mikal loves to put on a spectacle, but don't let that fool you, he can end a fight in a heartbeat."

Jim added, "Exactly. Mikal thrives in chaos. He's got those wild kicks, spinning attacks, and unorthodox moves that can catch anyone off guard. Damon has to stay composed, or he could get caught in Mikal's storm."

Damon kept walking toward the cage, his face showing no emotion other than calm.

He took a quick look at the crowd, but he wasn't nervous like he was before the final of The Supreme Fighter.

Everything else, the noise, the lights, and the pressure, fell away.

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This was just another fight, another chance to prove himself.

Honestly, Damon had heard it countless times "Prove himself."

One would think that after reaching a certain level of success, the proving would stop.

But in this sport, it never really did.

There was always something to prove, whether it was to shut up people who didn't believe you, gain credibility, or make sure that people who believed in you believed even more.

Every fight was a test, and every victory had expectation.

Prove the fans right.

Prove the critics wrong.

Prove that you belonged.

His heart was calm as he walked to the cage.

The energy was lively, and you could feel the excitement. As he walked toward the official stationed just outside the Octagon, he moved confidently.

The worker told him to stop with a hand signal.

The man began the usual pre-fight check by running covered hands over Damon's gear and body to make sure nothing was wrong.

Damon raised his arms a little.

The official pressed lightly along Damon's gloves, checking the tape for security, then moved to his mouthguard, signaling for Damon to show it was in place.

Satisfied, the official nodded and dipped his fingers into a jar of Vaseline.

He applied a thin layer across Damon's cheekbones, forehead, and under his eyes with quick, practiced motions.

"You're good," the official said, stepping aside.

Damon nodded in acknowledgment, his focus already shifting as he approached the cage steps.

He paused for a brief moment, glancing at the towering structure before crouching low.

With fluid, almost predatory movement, Damon placed his hands on the stairs and crawled up on all fours, his posture controlled, exuding intensity.

His muscles coiled as he reached the top, where he stood upright with a powerful rise, stepping through the open door into the cage.

The roar of the crowd hit him like a wave, but Damon barely registered it. His world had narrowed to the confines of the Octagon.

The lights went down, and Mikal Tereira's intro music with its pulsing bass shook the arena to its core.

Bright, colorful lights swept across the stands, illuminating the fans who roared with excitement.

Even louder than Damon's roar of entrance.

Then, like a force of nature, Mikal Tereira burst onto the walkway.

He seemed sure of himself and jumped around a little, his smile almost playful.

He stopped at the side of the path and raised both hands high above his head, pointing his fingers up into the heavens.

Without a warning, Mikal did a backflip that was perfect, landing with the accuracy of a cat.

The arena erupted into chaos, fans screaming and jumping to their feet, already captivated by the showman.

Mikal jogged down the walkway, his movements fluid and light as he slapped hands with fans leaning over the barricades.

As he neared the cage, he leapt onto the top of the barrier with ease, balancing effortlessly.

With a wide grin, he hyped the crowd even further, raising his arms and shouting something inaudible but clearly infectious.

The fans responded with a deafening cheer.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

"He's just having fun out there," Jim said, his admiration evident. "But you know, Demien, this isn't just showmanship. This kind of agility and athleticism translates directly into his style in the cage."

Demien nodded. "Exactly, Jim. He's unpredictable, and that's his biggest weapon. You don't know where the strike is coming from, and before you know it, the fight's over. Tereira is one of those fighters you can't take your eyes off of, not even for a second."

When Mikal got to the cage, he hopped down elegantly and walked up to the person who was waiting to check him out. The man nodded and waved his hand for Mikal to open his arms.

The official patted him down with efficiency, running his hands over Mikal's gloves, checking his fingernails, and wiping a light layer of Vaseline across his cheeks and brow.

Mikal stood still, his grin unwavering, soaking in every second of the crowd's adoration.

"Alright, you're good," the official said, stepping aside.

With a quick nod, Mikal bounded up the steps leading to the cage.

As he reached the top, he crouched low, gripping the edge of the cage.

Then, with another burst of energy, he flipped over the top, landing in the center of the Octagon in a flourish.

The crowd exploded once more, their voices nearly drowning out the music.

Mikal turned toward Damon, his playful grin fading slightly as his expression shifted into one of sharp focus.

He bounced lightly on his toes, his hands loose at his sides, ready for what was to come.