MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

"Again. Come on, let's drill."

Damon's voice rang across the gym. It wasn't loud, but the tone had weight.

The lightweight and middleweight fighters under Team Cross moved in sync. Sweat dripped from their chins, necks, and shoulders. The heat inside the gym wasn't helping, but no one complained.

Ronny McGregor and Ayo Fasusi were paired up, drilling clinch escapes against the wall.

Ronny's back was soaked through his compression shirt, and Ayo's arms glistened as he kept driving forward, over and over, until their grips started slipping.

On the other side, Max Taylor was working on chain wrestling with one of the assistant coaches. He dropped for a single-leg, got sprawled on, scrambled, reset, and shot again. Each time slower than the last, but he kept going.

Kenji Sato was on the assault bike, doing intervals. Damon had ordered ten rounds, thirty seconds sprint, thirty seconds rest. Kenji was on round six.

His arms were loose and flailing now, but his legs kept pumping. Sweat rolled down his temple and pooled on the floor.

The middleweights were no better off.

Theo Brunner and Elias Murad were locked in a heavy pad session, trading low kicks and counters.

José Alvarez, still recovering, shadowboxed with light movement off to the side, watching everyone as he moved with slower purpose.

Kaito Mori was jumping rope, keeping rhythm, his shirt already discarded. His chest rose and fell with each breath, sharp and shallow.

Damon moved between them. He didn't yell. He just gave corrections, sometimes barely lifting his voice. But every instruction was heard.

"Circle when you're tired, don't stay in front."

"Reset the hips before you shoot."

"Your shoulders drop when you throw. Fix that."

The walls echoed with effort, gloves hitting pads, shoes scuffing canvas, the spin of bikes, the slam of bodies on mats.

The gym had no music playing today. Only breath, commands, and the sound of fatigue being pushed past its limit.

This wasn't conditioning for the cameras. This was the part that broke people or built them.

Damon moved down the line, his shirt damp at the collar, but his tone as sharp as ever.

"Come on, José. I want to see some knockout power in those hands. Like you're punching your worst enemy."

José didn't respond. He just reset his stance, exhaled sharply, and threw a heavy combination into the pads, jab, cross, hook.

The assistant coach holding the mitts grunted with each impact. Damon watched his form carefully. The speed was there, the timing was sharp, but the intent still needed work.

"Drive through. Make every punch mean something. Right now you're tapping a door. I want you to kick it off the hinges."

Just a few feet away, Max was working with one of the assistant coaches on striking endurance, combos off movement, nonstop for a full round.

His shirt was soaked, sweat dripping from his chin onto the mat. His punches were clean but slower now, and his breathing had gone shallow.

Damon stepped closer and snapped his voice.

"Max, you have to outclass him. You strike better, you last longer, you punch harder, and faster, but not if you gas out after three punches. Push. Drill harder. You're not going to last if this is all you've got left in round one."

Max didn't stop, but he grunted between punches, "Three punches? Feels like three hours."

Damon cracked a smirk but didn't let up. "Good. Then dig deeper. Because your opponent's not going to stop just because you're tired."

He clapped once to reset everyone's pace. "We're not training to fight fresh. You win fights when you're exhausted, when you've got nothing left. That's what this is for."

The gym didn't quiet. It roared louder. Gloves hit pads harder. Breathing grew heavier. But no one quit.

The day rolled on with the same intensity. Drills, sweat, and repetition filled every hour.

Damon kept them moving, but in the back of his mind, he already planned to ease things up tomorrow.

Max needed the rest, and so did a few others. That day would be light, just enough to keep sharp. After that, it was fight day.

Damon had started the last camp unsure, but he felt confident in Max. The guy had something. It wasn't just technique or power. It was obedience under pressure.

When Damon said jump, Max didn't question it. He went harder. No excuses, no back talk, just action. That kind of discipline was rare, especially when they were almost the same age.

But what surprised Damon more was that Max wasn't alone. Every fighter on the team had bought in.

They pushed themselves, leaned on each other, and didn't slow down. It reminded Damon of something he hadn't felt in a while, hunger.

Back in the big leagues, he had grown used to facing polished fighters. Athletes with money, management, and security.

Guys who fought like businessmen. But this house was different.

These fighters had everything to gain and nothing to lose. They were clawing their way up, not protecting what they already had.

Watching them lit something in Damon. A quiet respect. A memory of who he was before all this, before the fame, the titles, and the cameras. Back when fighting meant survival.

He remembered those early days, fighting underweight, using worn-out gloves and sharing shin guards.

He didn't even have a gym, it was the system and a dream.

Back then, there were nights he fought for food money, nights he slept on cold floors.

Nights he trained through hunger and exhaustion because there was no other option. And now? He had every option.

Damon sat at the top. He had the belts, the records, the respect. People spoke his name like it carried weight.

He didn't worry about where the next meal would come from, or if his mom had a roof over her head.

That pain, the kind that used to push him harder, wasn't there anymore. He had won.

So the question lingered: Why keep fighting?

He had already succeeded at everything he set out to do. His mother no longer cleaned hotel rooms to survive.

She smiled now. She lived comfortably, proudly. Damon made sure of that. And more than that, he had his own family.

A woman he loved, a daughter he adored, another child on the way. His family was safe. His home was whole.

The van ride back to the hotel was quiet, the fighters already dropped off. Damon sat alone with his thoughts. He stared out the window, not really seeing the road. Just thinking. Reflecting.

He had been asked this before, back when he first met Victor in Stockton.

Damon told him he fought to survive, to protect, to succeed. But Victor had rejected his answer, saying he wanted to know why he was fighting and not what he was fighting for.

He didn't know then.

And now, all these years later, as a two-division champion, an undefeated legend, and a man with everything he once fought for, Damon finally knew the answer.

He fought because he loved it.

Not because he had to. Not anymore. But because deep down, in the part of him that no belt or title could touch, he loved this.

The fight. The chaos. The decisions made in split seconds. The quiet walk before the cage door closes.

The noise, the pressure, the silence inside his head once it all starts. It was who he was.

Damon Cross didn't fight because he needed to.

He fought because the fight was him.