MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Deuce Baffer, wearing his trademark suit and a bright red tie, stood in the middle of the cage with the microphone in his hand.

His words were clear even over the loud crowd, and his presence was magnetic.

When Deuce picked up the mic, the arena's excitement hit a new high.

"Ladies and gentlemen," his voice boomed, "this is the final fight before the co-main event of the evening! It is sanctioned by the Nevada State Athletic Commission and brought to you by the United Fighting Association. And now… this fight is three rounds in the middleweight division!"

The crowd cheered, and you could almost feel the energy in the arena.

Deuce continued, his voice rising. "Introducing first… fighting out of the blue corner! This man is a mixed martial artist holding a professional record of 31 wins, 12 losses. Standing six feet one inch tall, weighing in at 185 pounds… "Fighting out of Marabá, Pará, Brazil!

Mikal 'Demolidor' Tereira!"

At the roars of the crowd, Mikal raised both arms and smiled with confidence.

As his name echoed through the arena, he lightly bounced on his toes and felt the excitement.

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Deuce turned to the opposite side of the cage. "And his opponent… fighting out of the red corner! This man is a mixed martial artist holding a perfect professional record of 6 wins, no losses. Standing six feet two inches tall, weighing in at 185 pounds… fighting out of Limerick, Ireland… presenting the rising star… Damon Cross!"

Damon stepped forward, his expression calm but focused, his fists lightly tapping together as he acknowledged the crowd.

An excited wave of cheers went through the venue, letting his growing number of fans know they were there.

Deuce took one last glance at both fighters before stepping back, his voice booming one final time. "When the action begins, your referee in charge… Mark Smith!"

As the crowd got louder, the fighters moved toward the middle of the cage with their eyes locked. It looked like there would be a great fight.

Damon paced around his corner, shaking out his arms and bouncing lightly on his toes, his eyes locked on Mikal across the cage.

The referee, Mark Smith, motioned for both fighters to step forward.

Damon and Mikal walked to the center, meeting under the bright lights.

Mark Smith stood between them, his voice calm but firm as he laid down the rules. "Alright, gentlemen, we've already been through the rules in the locker room. I want a good, clean fight. Protect yourself at all times. Obey my commands at all times. If you want to touch gloves, do it now."

Neither fighter moved to touch gloves. Instead, their gazes locked, intensity radiating between them.

Mark looked at both men, pausing for a moment before stepping back. "Ready?" he asked, his eyes on Damon, who gave a sharp nod.

"Ready?" he repeated to Mikal, who grinned and nodded in return.

Mark raised his hand and dropped it with a single commanding word. "Fight!"

The commentators leaned forward as the fighters squared off.

"And it is officially underway!" Jim Logan exclaimed. "Damon Cross versus Mikal Tereira. Demien, who do you think takes this one?"

Demien Korvier considered for a moment. "You know, Jim, I'm tempted to lean towards Mikal with his experience and unpredictability, but Damon is a rising star with incredible skill. I think it's best we watch and see. I suspect we're in for an exciting stand-up battle."

The bell had rung, and Damon and Mikal stood across from each other, eyes locked.

There was no animosity between them, but they weren't friends either.

This was business.

Damon settled into his stance, his fists high and his movements light.

Mikal, the showman, bounced on his toes, a playful grin tugging at the corners of his mouth.Nôv(el)B\\jnn

Mikal feinted a couple of times, testing the waters. Damon didn't bite, keeping his guard steady and his eyes focused.

Damon circled to his left, his eyes locked on Mikal, who was bouncing lightly on his toes.

The Brazilian's stance was loose, his arms slightly out, his head faintly bobbing.

Damon recognized it immediately, this was Mikal's signature approach, unpredictable and fluid, designed to confuse his opponents and mask his true intentions.

Mikal threw a feint, his lead hand twitching forward.

Damon didn't flinch, keeping his guard tight, his body steady. He had studied Mikal extensively in the weeks leading up to this fight.

The Brazilian's unorthodox movements were meant to bait his opponents into overcommitting, leaving openings for his devastating counters or explosive flying attacks.

Mikal stepped in suddenly with a quick jab.

It wasn't meant to land, it was a range-finder. Damon saw it coming, shifting slightly out of range while keeping his balance.

Mikal smiled and walked away in a circle. His steps were light and almost fun.

Damon noticed that Mikal's movements had a slight beat to them.

He wasn't just bouncing around randomly, he was checking out the distance between them and waiting for the right time to explode.

Damon thought of what he'd learned. Mikal's strengths were also his weaknesses.

He liked to stay active and flashy, but that could leave him open. His high-energy style meant his gas tank wasn't infinite.

If Damon stayed patient and disciplined, he could find his moments.

Mikal darted in again, this time throwing a quick one-two combination.

The punches came fast and sharp, the second one aiming for Damon's chin.

Damon rolled his shoulders, slipping the first punch and deflecting the second with a high guard.

He responded instantly with a sharp low kick, landing it flush on Mikal's lead leg.

The impact made a loud crack, drawing a murmur from the crowd.

Mikal nodded, acknowledging the strike, but his grin didn't waver.

He stepped in again, this time feinting a flying knee. Damon's eyes narrowed.

He didn't bite on the feint, staying planted, but Mikal transitioned smoothly into a spinning back fist, the momentum carrying his body forward.

Damon ducked just in time, feeling the air rush past his head as Mikal's fist missed by inches.

Damon used the moment to counter, lunging forward with a stiff jab that snapped Mikal's head back.

"Nice timing by Damon Cross!" Jim Logan shouted from the commentary booth. "That jab was textbook. He's staying disciplined, not getting drawn into Mikal's wild game."

"Exactly, Jim," Demien Korvier added. "That's what Damon needs to do. He can't afford to get flashy with Mikal, he has to stick to his fundamentals."

Mikal reset quickly, wiping his nose with the back of his glove. He moved forward, his movements more erratic now.

He feinted again, this time with a low kick, and transitioned into a cartwheel kick. The crowd gasped as Mikal's foot arced through the air.

Damon stepped back, narrowly avoiding the strike, his eyes tracking Mikal's every move.

He wasn't rattled, he'd seen the tapes. Mikal loved flashy techniques, but they were high-risk, high-reward.