MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Damon sat on the stool, breathing slow and steady as the cut man worked at the swelling around his eye.

He felt the ache in his legs, the tight burn in his shoulders, but he knew he was still in control.

He had dominated the past rounds, at least, that's what he believed.

His gloves rested on his knees, fingers twitching, mind sharp.

He'd expected this to be a back-and-forth, but he hadn't expected it to stay standing the whole way. Damon hadn't even touched his wrestling this fight. He didn't need to.

This had been pure striking, a chess match of fists and feet, a contest of willpower and technique.

And it was the kind of fight that usually ended with someone knocked out.

Damon could feel it, Jon was still there, still fighting, but Damon had been breaking him down piece by piece.

He wasn't sure how much longer Jon could keep taking it.

They finished the touch up quickly.

The cut on Damon's eye had been a small annoyance, nothing that would stop him outright, but enough to remind him to keep his guard tight.

He knew Jon had seen it Jon had been aiming for it since the second round. Damon felt it in every glance Jon gave that side of his face.

Victor patted him on the shoulder. "Alright, finish this up. You got this. We've got a long night ahead of us."

Damon just nodded. He didn't need a long speech. He knew what he had to do.

The horn rang. Both corners cleared out, the canvas now just for them. Damon rose from his stool, rolling his shoulders loose, his breath steady.

Across the cage, Jon stood waiting, his own face marked and red, but his eyes still clear.

The fight was about to enter round number four.

Damon began to move, meeting Jon in the center of the cage without hesitation.

Damon planted his feet, his weight balanced, and let his hands go with real power.

He ripped a right cross straight through Jon's guard, the crack of leather on bone echoing in the arena.

Jon answered with a left hook that rattled against Damon's cheek, turning his head but not backing him up. Damon felt the jolt in his jaw, tasted copper, but it just lit a fire in his chest.

They traded again, Damon's left hook to the ribs, Jon's right to the head, both men biting down and throwing with everything they had.

Damon felt the punch thump against his shoulder, but he rolled it and came back with a tight uppercut that snapped Jon's head back a fraction.

Not pausing, he turned into a low kick that smacked Jon's leg, the thud loud even over the roar of the crowd.

Jon stepped in with a heavy right hand, and Damon didn't shy away. He met it head-on, his own left crashing into Jon's chin.

The blow landed so hard it stung Damon's knuckles, but Jon didn't budge. Jon kept pressing, his face a mask of focus, each punch thrown with the kind of power that could change the fight in a heartbeat.

Damon bobbed and weaved, but he wasn't trying to slip everything now. He took the shots he needed to, letting them glance off his shoulders, his guard, his ribs.

He felt every shot Jon landed, a jab that thudded into his brow, a hook to the body that made his breath hitch. But he didn't back down.

He answered with thudding combinations, three punches, then four, then back to two. His breath roared in his ears, sweat flying from his brow with every impact.

His left hook found Jon's ribs again and again, the skin turning red and raw. The Ghost Punch was gone, this was raw power, no more hiding.

Jon's face was red, his mouth open, his breath coming in ragged gasps. But his eyes stayed locked on Damon.

He ripped a low kick that turned Damon's thigh purple, but Damon just shifted stances and threw a crushing right hand that caught Jon's ear.

The sound was sharp, a pop that got the crowd screaming.

They traded again, forehead to forehead, gloves hammering each other's ribs, their

feet planted in the center of the cage.

Damon felt Jon's shots, felt the power, the force of every punch.

But he gave it right back, turning his hips and shoulders into every strike, knowing that every shot had to matter now.

The crowd was on its feet, the noise deafening. Damon could hear Victor's voice somewhere, telling him to move, to breathe, but he didn't care.

He was in it now, his body moving on instinct, every muscle burning but alive.

He slipped a jab and came back with a left hook, then pivoted and slammed a right to the ribs that made Jon's breath whoosh out.

Jon answered with an overhand that clipped Damon's temple, making him blink, but he didn't take a step back.

He planted and threw a hard right cross that cracked Jon's nose, blood spraying across his cheek.

Jon snarled, his teeth red with blood, and threw a hook to Damon's ribs that had real weight, real intent.

Damon grunted, twisted his hips, and fired a knee up the middle that caught Jon's gut, folding him just for a second.

He didn't stop, he threw an elbow that glanced off Jon's guard, then a left hook that landed flush.

They broke for a breath, both men heaving, sweat dripping from their brows, the canvas spattered with blood.

Then they came together again, throwing like they didn't care about tomorrow, Damon's jab snapping out, Jon's cross slamming back, their bodies moving like warriors in a storm.

Damon felt the sting in his legs from the low kicks, the throb in his ribs, the cut over his eye weeping blood.

But he didn't care. He felt the raw power in his shoulders, the surge of his heart, and he knew he could keep going.

This wasn't about technique anymore. This was about grit, about who could stand longer, who could hit harder, who could take more.

And Damon was right there in the fire, trading everything he had with Jon, giving no ground, taking none.

The round kept going, each second stretched into forever. The crowd's roar was just a pulse now, in Damon's chest, in his blood.

He planted his feet and threw a right hand that landed square on Jon's chin, then took a hook in return that made his vision flash white.

He reset, fired back, jab, hook, uppercut, each punch landing, each punch echoing in the cage.

Jon pressed, Damon pressed. neither man backing down, neither man blinking. They just kept throwing.