MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Damon was in his hotel bed and looked up at the ceiling. The complex pattern above him was lovely, but he was thinking about something else.

He had been through a lot during the fight in his mind, especially since he was up against Calvin. He kept going over it in his head, but one question stood out above the rest.

Why so serious?

Was he fighting to survive? No, he had long left that struggle behind. With his earnings from this match, and the last, he could live as he pleased.

Was he fighting to live? No, he didn't need to fight to feel alive.

He had his family, he had Svetlana.

So this took him back to the root, to that moment in Stockton when Victor asked him the question that had started it all.

Why was he fighting?

Every time he entered the octagon, he put on a mask, serious, focused, unshakable.

Which was good, he guessed.

But wouldn't it be cool if he could knock fighters out and still keep a smile? As if it was effortless, like it didn't weigh so much on him.

He sat up, running a hand through his hair.

"Too much on the mind," he muttered.

Then, half to himself, he chuckled. "Is this what they call post-nut clarity? Post-fight clarity?"

The words hung in the quiet room, and Damon cringed at his own joke.

"Jesus, man…" he groaned, flopping back down on the bed.

Welp, tonight ended well. His fight was done, and everything had wrapped up smoothly.

The press conference went about as expected.

The questions came rolling in, stuff like whether he'd start using groundwork regularly or if it was just a defensive tactic.

They asked if he still had his sights on the top ten.

Damon answered them all, keeping it short and to the point.

Now, though, it was over.

And honestly? He was tired.

It didn't take long for Damon to get his wish, he was out cold, fast asleep.

But while he rested, the UFA middleweight division experienced a major shake-up that night.

The highly anticipated fight between DPP and Shane Brickland ended in a shocking fashion.

Much like their first encounter, the fight went the full distance, leaving the outcome in the hands of the judges.

And in a razor-close decision, Shane Brickland reclaimed the title, taking the belt away from DPP.

The result sparked immediate chaos across social media.

Fans of both fighters clashed, rehashing arguments from their first fight when DPP had taken the belt.

Shane's supporters celebrated his victory, while DPP's fans cried foul, claiming the decision was nothing short of robbery.

It was a night that left the middleweight division buzzing with controversy.

Now, all eyes turned to who would be next in line for the middleweight title shot.

Desayen, The Last Stylebender, was always a spectacle to watch.

His flashy, creative striking made for entertaining fights, but despite his high rank, many fans didn't see him as the next challenger.

Then there was Balim Chemasov, still undefeated and undeniably dominant.

His name was in every conversation, but it didn't seem like the UFA was ready to pull the trigger on him just yet.

They wanted fighting champions, ones who could stay active and defend the belt whenever needed.

While DPP deserved a rematch after such a close fight, and he'd likely get it, the fans were hungry for something fresh.

They wanted to see someone new step into the spotlight, someone who could shake things up in the division.

And Damon? He wasn't even in the conversation. Not in the line, not even a passing mention.

While a handful of die-hard fans threw his name into the mix, excited by his recent performance and growing record, they were quickly shot down, like they had uttered something offensive.

"Damon Cross? For the title? Get real."

That was the consensus. Sure, he beat Calvin Oland, but to the wider MMA audience, so what?

Oland was tough, but he wasn't the guy to beat, not someone whose loss would suddenly crown Damon as the next big thing.

To them, Damon was still just a promising prospect, a guy with talent but no real claim to the throne yet.

Which was fair. Damon was doing well in the UFA, no doubt, but fighters who got fast-tracked to the top usually had something to back them up, something big.

Maybe they were champions in another promotion before the UFA signed them, or maybe they had an undefeated streak against high-level names that made people sit up and take notice.

Damon had none of that.

Winning The Supreme Fighter was impressive, sure, but that title could only take you so far.

It was a good start, but it didn't hold the same weight as a regional belt or a championship from another major organization.

To many, he was still just "the kid from TSF," someone who needed to prove himself in the big leagues.

.

.

.

There was a lot of luxury in the atmosphere in the sleek, large office with floor-to-ceiling windows that let in stunning views of the desert city skyline.

The room was alive with murmurs and polite conversation, filled with men wearing pristine white robes, traditional kanduras, and expensive watches that glimmered under the light.

These were men of wealth and power, their presence radiating quiet authority.

At the table sat Ronen Black. The UFA president's bald head reflected a faint shine as he leaned back in his chair, hands folded in front of him.

He listened intently, nodding at points as the men discussed future opportunities for events in Abu Dhabi. Despite the relaxed posture, Ronen's sharp eyes never missed a detail.

Suddenly, his phone buzzed in his pocket.

Ronen glanced at the screen, his expression shifting to something unreadable. With an apologetic nod to his guests, he stood. "Excuse me for a moment, gentlemen."

The men at the table nodded as Ronen stepped out of the room, his polished shoes clicking against the marble floor. He moved to a quieter hallway, where he answered the call.

"Hello."

The voice on the other end came through with urgency. "Ronen, there's a problem with the upcoming Fight Night."

Ronen frowned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What kind of problem? I thought we dealt with the matchmaking already."

The voice hesitated for a beat before continuing. "We did. But the main fight's in jeopardy. One of the fighters called in, they tore their ACL during training. They won't be able to fight. We're left with an empty slot."

"They pulled out?" Ronen exhaled sharply, his frustration evident, though he kept his tone even. "Alright, listen, let me wrap up this meeting here. While I'm finishing up, I want you to start thinking of replacements. Pull up all options we've got. When I get back, we'll talk and sort this out."

"Understood," the voice replied.

Ronen hung up and slipped the phone back into his pocket, his mind already racing. A pulled main event was a nightmare for any promotion, and this Fight Night was too close to call off.

They needed a replacement, someone who could step in and deliver, someone the fans would get behind.

With a deep breath, Ronen turned back toward the meeting room, his professional mask slipping back into place.

But in the back of his mind, he couldn't shake the looming problem.

The main fight was gone.

And now, they needed a solution.

Fast.