MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

The Irish fans were standing, singing, waving flags, and cheering passionately.

The Polish fans matched the energy, determined to support their fighter and not let anything take away from his performance.

The whole arena was filled with excitement and people were eager for what was about to happen.

No one knew how the judges would score this war.

The camera panned to the commentary desk, where the two analysts, an Irish commentator and a Polish commentator, were deep in discussion.

The Irishman adjusted his headset and leaned forward.

"I tell ye what, lads, that was one hell of a scrap. We knew these young fellas weren't as experienced as some of the other names in this tournament, but by God, they left it all in there. That last round? Madness. Absolute madness."

The Polish commentator, a former coach turned analyst, nodded, tapping his fingers against the table as he considered his words.

"Yes, it was wild, but let's break it down properly. Niklas had the better start. He controlled the first round, had the knockdown, dictated the exchanges. But the second? That was Demaien's round. He took over, almost finished the fight with that submission attempt. And the third…" He exhaled. "That was as close as it gets."

The Irish commentator nodded, rubbing his beard.

"Exactly! It depends on how much the judges weigh that first knockdown, yeah? But if they're scoring it as a whole fight, Demaien had more control when it mattered.

He did more damage, and let's not forget that brutal kimura that nearly ended the fight. If he had ten more seconds, that arm might've been gone."

The Polish commentator raised a finger, countering.

"But Niklas popped his shoulder back in and fought like a madman. That has to count for something. His striking was more polished. He was landing cleaner shots even in that last round. The judges might see that as more effective work."

The Irish commentator scoffed.

"Ah, come on! More effective? Demaien had him crushed at the end there. It was a dogfight, but I reckon the Irish lad takes it."

The Polish commentator chuckled, shaking his head.

"I wouldn't be so sure. The judges may favor Niklas's striking. And let's not ignore the fact that these are international judges. no home bias."

The officials stood in position, their expressions unreadable as they gathered the scorecards.

The judges, selected from neutral territories under the MMA Governing Body, ensured that no country had any influence over the decision.

Whatever the outcome, it would be fair.

Damon exhaled, rolling out his shoulders as he stood near the cage, watching the chaos unfold around him.

The medical team worked swiftly, tending to Niklas's arm and Demaien's cuts.

Both fighters looked exhausted but stood tall, knowing they had given everything.

Meanwhile, the referee and announcer stood near the judges' table, reviewing the final scorecards. The tension in the air was suffocating.

Damon's gaze shifted to Tommy Hughes, who was pacing in the corner, muttering under his breath.

His energy wasn't just heavy, it was draining.

Instead of lifting the team, he seemed more like an anchor, weighed down by his own frustration.

Damon shook his head slightly. It is what it is.

He didn't pick the coach, and at this point, he wasn't sure he would've picked Tommy if given the choice. But this wasn't about that right now.

He looked toward Demaien, who was wiping sweat from his face, his breathing finally slowing. The kid had pushed through hell tonight.

Across the cage, Niklas flexed his injured arm, wincing as the medics whispered to him.

He had fought like a madman, even popping his shoulder back in mid-fight. If nothing else, he had earned everyone's respect.

The Irish fans were still chanting. The Polish fans were standing in defiance, refusing to quiet down.

No one knew the decision yet, but everyone knew this fight would be remembered.

Damon took a deep breath as the announcer stepped forward.

It was time.

Demaien walked toward the center of the cage, where the referee stood between him and Niklas.

Both fighters looked battered, exhausted, and barely holding themselves upright, but there was no tension between them, only respect.

Niklas, still flexing his left arm carefully, extended his good hand. Demaien met it with a firm shake, nodding in respect.

They had just been through a war. And in the end, it didn't matter where they came from, only that they had given everything.

The crowd, sensing the mutual respect, erupted into cheers. Irish and Polish fans alike appreciated what they had just witnessed.

For many watching, it didn't even matter who won. They wanted to see both fighters succeed.

Online, fans were already buzzing. Clips of the fight were spreading.

Fans were calling for both men to be signed by a major promotion, whether it be UFA or elsewhere.

These two had something special.

But now, the moment everyone was waiting for, the decision.

The officials stood in position, their expressions unreadable as they gathered the scorecards.

The arena remained tense, the energy pulsing through the air.

Fans were on edge, some clutching their flags, others murmuring in anticipation.

Demaien stood with his hands on his hips, chest rising and falling with deep breaths.

He had given everything.

Win or lose, he had no regrets.

Niklas, on the other side, was still rolling his shoulder, shifting his stance slightly as if testing his arm.

His face was a mess of swelling and dried blood, but he held his chin high.

The referee moved to the center, calling both fighters to join him.

The announcer stepped forward, holding the microphone, his voice cutting through the deafening noise.

"Ladies and gentlemen, after three rounds of war, we go to the judges' scorecards for a decision."

The crowd erupted again, voices clashing in chants of "IRELAND! IRELAND!" while Polish fans responded just as passionately with "POLSKA! POLSKA!"

The chants roared through the arena, rolling like waves, a constant, unrelenting force.

It didn't feel like an MMA match anymore, it felt like a football stadium in full voice.

The announcer glanced at the referee, who nodded as he received the final tally.

"The judges score the contest… 28-29… 29-28… and..."

A brief pause.