MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

The arena was split in chaos.

Irish fans booed loudly, their anger and disbelief echoing through the venue.

The Polish fans matched the energy, cheering loudly and their chants overwhelmed the outrage from the Irish fans.

It was madness.

The commentators spoke over the noise.

Irish Commentator: "And just like that, Poland is still in the game! Garmrond was in a tough spot, but my God, what a feckin' knockout to turn it all around!"

Polish Commentator: "Absolutely incredible! If he had lost, Poland would've been eliminated! But instead, he delivered one of the best finishes of the tournament so far!"

While the Polish team erupted in celebration, the Irish corner was eerily silent.

Tommy Hughes stood frozen, hands on his hips, his mouth slightly open.

Victor crossed his arms, exhaling through his nose, his expression unreadable.

The grappling coach shook his head, muttering something under his breath, rubbing his face with both hands.

Damon?

He just stared at the cage.

His jaw was tight, his fists clenched.

Not from anger.

Not from disappointment.

But from understanding.

He had seen it happen before.

This wasn't just about losing a fight.

Collin NcGyver had just gotten badly knocked out.

Four years away from the sport. Four years of self-belief hanging by a thread.

He was lying unconscious on the mat.

It wasn't just a loss.

It was devastating.

The medical team rushed in, checking on Collin as he slowly started stirring, his body language sluggish.

Tommy finally spoke.

His voice wasn't its usual loud, commanding tone.

It was low.

Almost distant.

"That was bad… real bad."

The Irish team entered the cage, helping Collin to his feet. He was still groggy, his legs unsteady as he tried to process what had happened.

It was frustrating.

Not just for Collin, but for the entire team.

Now, the tournament spot hung by a thread.

It all came down to the final match.

If they won, Ireland would qualify.

If they lost…

There would be no tournament for them. The tension in the arena was suffocating.

The Polish team had already celebrated their victory, but they weren't done yet.

Neither were the Irish.

Both sides stood at the edge of their seats, waiting.

The announcer stepped forward, microphone in hand.

The referee grabbed both fighters' wrists, preparing for the official decision.

The arena fell silent.

Then, the announcement came.

"Ladies and gentlemen, the referee has called a stop to this contest at four minutes and thirty-two seconds of Round 1, declaring the winner by knockout… MATEUSZ GARMROND!"

The Polish fans erupted.

Irish fans let out a wave of disappointed groans and scattered boos, but they knew it was fair.

Collin had been knocked out cold.

The tournament wasn't over yet.

One more fight.

One more shot at redemption for Ireland.

.

.

.

Back in the locker room, anxiety filled the air like a suffocating cloud. The Irish team sat quietly, looking disappointed and frustrated.

Tommy Hughes was not quiet at all; he was constantly moving, and you could see he was upset with every step he took.

"What the feck was that, Collin?!" Tommy's voice was sharp, "Ye let him walk all over ye, made ye look like an amateur out there! Swingin' wild like a pub brawler, gettin' laid out in front of the whole bloody world! What were ye thinkin'?!"

Collin sat on the bench, ice pressed against his swelling jaw, eyes fixed on the floor.

His chest rose and fell with each controlled breath, but he didn't look up, didn't flinch. Just kept that ice pack pressed against the remnants of his pride.

Tommy's rant continued, his face flushed with anger. "Four feckin' years away, and that's what ye bring back to the cage? Embarrassed us, embarrassed Ireland! Ye didn't belong in there, and it showed!"

At this, Collin's head finally snapped up, eyes narrowed. He tossed the ice pack onto the bench, his face twisting into a sneer.

"Are ye done barkin', ye useless gobshite?" He responded sharply, his voice filled with anger. "Sat there on yer arse, throwin' orders around like you'd have done any better. Fought me heart out, and if ye don't feckin' like it, ye can piss off and find another lad to carry yer shite advice."

The room fell into stunned silence, Tommy's mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.

Collin wasn't done. He stood up, towering over the shorter man, his eyes blazing. "Four years out, and I stepped back in there while ye were sittin' comfortable, runnin' yer mouth. Ye think ye can do better? Then lace up the gloves and show me, ye feckin' has-been. Until then, shut yer trap."

Victor raised a hand, trying to diffuse the tension. "Alright, enough. This isn't helpin' anyone."

Collin scoffed, grabbing his bag. "Aye, it's not. Waste of feckin' breath."

He turned, his steps heavy, the weight of the loss pressing down on his shoulders. But as he reached the door, he glanced back, his face hard, eyes defiant.

"Ye can talk all ye want, but it's me that stepped in that cage. Next time, keep yer mouth shut unless ye're throwin' punches yerself."

With that, he stormed out, leaving the team in stunned silence, the echoes of his words lingering in the air.

Damon sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose.

Collin was Collin.

Whatever was going through his head, he'd deal with it in his own way. But right now, there was someone else in the room who needed focus.

Damon turned his attention to Demaien Ncguygan.

The guy was sitting on the bench, gloves on, bouncing his legs slightly, his breathing steady but forced.

He was nervous.

Really nervous.

Tommy, still seething from his exchange with Collin, didn't seem to notice or care.

He was muttering to himself, arms crossed, his jaw tight.

Damon didn't like how that went down. He didn't like Tommy treating Collin like a child. A man with an ego that big wasn't going to respond well to a scolding, especially after getting knocked out.

But that was a conversation for another time. Right now, they still had one more fight to win.
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Damon grabbed a bottle of water and passed it to Demaien, who took it with slightly shaky hands.

Damon leaned against the wall, arms crossed, looking down at his teammate. "You ready to get us a win?"

Demaien exhaled through his nose, rolling his shoulders. He forced a smile, though it was clear he was trying to convince himself more than anyone else. "You know it."

Damon smirked. "You sure? 'Cause you look like you just watched your own funeral."

Demaien let out a short laugh, shaking his head. "Man, I ain't gonna lie, this shite is heavy. You and Collin got the whole country watching. If I fumble, they'll never let me live it down."

Damon nodded, understanding. "You're not fighting for them."

Demaien blinked, looking up. "What?"

Damon tapped his own chest. "You're fighting for you. Forget the crowd, forget Poland, forget the fucking anthem, all of it. It's just you and him. The moment you start thinking about anyone else in that cage, you're already losing."

Demaien stared at him for a moment before nodding slowly. His breathing started to settle.

Damon watched him, recognizing the nerves, the doubt. He had been there once, too.

"You do what you do best. Stick to your wrestling, don't force shit, and keep your hands up when you shoot." Damon paused. "And most importantlyz don't feckin' freeze. The moment you hesitate, you're done."

Demaien let out another breath, this one steadier. He nodded again, this time with more confidence. "Yeah. Yeah, I got this."