MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

"THIS IS YOUR CO-MAIN EVENT OF THE EVENING!!"

Deuce Baffer's voice thundered through the arena, snapping like electricity.

"Three rounds in the UFA Middleweight Division!"

A loud cheer followed, fans of both men making themselves heard.

The atmosphere was heavy with expectation.

"Introducing first!

Fighting out of the red corner!

A mixed martial artist holding a professional record of twenty-four wins, four losses.

Standing six feet four inches tall, weighing in at one hundred eighty-four pounds.

Fighting out of Lagos, Nigeria—

He is the former UFA Middleweight Champion…

ISMAEL… DESAYEN!!!"

The crowd gave him a massive ovation. Desayen stayed composed, nodding once, his expression calm but intense. This was his world. His moment. His final run.

He raised one glove, and the arena rumbled back.

Desayen walked slowly toward the center, lips pursed, eyes locked in.

A faint smirk showed at the corner of his mouth, confident. Focused. Ready.

Deuce turned to the other side of the cage.

"And his opponent—

Fighting out of the blue corner!"

The crowd leaned in. Some rose to their feet, cellphones already recording.

"A mixed martial artist holding a perfect professional record: twenty wins, no losses.

Standing six feet two inch tall, weighing in at one hundred eighty-four pounds.

Fighting out of Limerick, Ireland…"

A fresh wave of cheers broke out.

Deuce paused for a moment, then raised his voice again.

"He is the 20** World MMA Middleweight Tournament Champion…

THE UNDEFEATED, DAMON CROSS!!!"

The place exploded.

Fans across the arena roared in support, Irish flags waved in the stands. Damon didn't lift his arms, didn't smile, just stood calmly and nodded once. He rolled his shoulders, breathing easy.

Focused.

A man with nothing to prove, yet still walking in with something to fight for.

The ref, Samuel Cortez, stepped forward, calling them both to the center.

"Alright gentlemen, you know the rules. Protect yourself at all times, follow my commands at all times. If you want to touch gloves, do it now."

Desayen reached out slowly. Damon did the same.

A sharp fist bump.

No smiles. No fake nods.

Just acknowledgment. Just respect.

Then they both turned, walking back to their corners.

The tension tightened.

A buzz rolled through the arena.

The fighters were still. The world was watching.

The ref looked once to each corner.

Then signaled to the timekeeper.

"Ready?"

"Ready?"

"Let's fight!"

Jon Goodman's voice returned, energized and locked in.

"Here we go! Damon Cross versus Ismael Desayen. A true clash of eras. The new wave versus the old guard. Undefeated tournament champion versus a former world champion."

Rich Alvarez added with focus.

"Damon Cross has been nearly flawless. Twenty and oh, precise, brutal, and calm under pressure. But Desayen isn't just some vet. He's a master of distance, timing, and explosive creativity. This is going to be a test."

Marvin Duke leaned in.

"And don't forget, this is Desayen's last dance. He's not walking in to lay down. He's walking in to write the final chapter on his own terms. If Cross wants to stay undefeated, he's going to have to earn it. The hard way."

Jon: "And both of them are so well-rounded. Desayen's known for that laser-sharp striking and feints. Cross, though? He can do it all. Striking, wrestling, clinch work, submission threats, he adapts on the fly."

The bell rang.

No touch of gloves. No nods. Just stillness, and then movement.

Desayen took the center with a slow, almost taunting swagger. His lead hand floated high, rear hand low, his torso angled, legs wide and spring-loaded. He bounced light, like a man dancing at the edge of a storm. He threw a low feint, the kind that usually draws reactions. Damon didn't bite.

Damon stepped in, light on his feet. His posture upright, hands close to his face but relaxed. He didn't commit to anything early. Just stalked, shifting left to right, reading.

Desayen fired the first real shot, an inside leg kick. Quick, sharp. Damon checked it, barely lifting his shin.

Then Desayen flicked a jab. It wasn't meant to land, it was a rhythm break. His footwork followed it, circling out, playing with range.

Damon stepped in with a straight right. Fast. Desayen slipped it clean, rolled under and came back with a left hook that caught Damon's glove.

Damon stayed on him. Not reckless, just surgical. A front kick from Damon snapped up toward the body. Desayen parried with an elbow, shifting his angle in the process and launching a question mark kick that whizzed past Damon's guard.

The crowd reacted.

Damon responded with a chopping low kick, then a stiff jab that backed Desayen up.

But Desayen smiled.

He danced off the cage, resetting. Damon didn't chase. He waited.

Then Desayen switched stances and snapped a high kick up, Damon leaned back just in time.

Desayen's movement was electric. Elusive. Like he was trying to turn this into a rhythm puzzle.

But Damon wasn't trying to win the rhythm. He was trying to break it.

Midway through the round, Damon stepped into the pocket behind a double jab, then pivoted off a straight to land a hard right hook to the ribs. It thudded. Desayen felt it.

He backed off. That was the first clean body shot. Damon saw the reaction, and didn't let it go.

He stepped in again, feinting low, then went high with a lightning-fast head kick. Blocked, but barely. The power echoed.

Desayen countered immediately. A spinning elbow. Missed. Damon clinched, only for a second, and landed a quick knee to the thigh before breaking.

The pace slowed briefly. Both men breathing easy, still sharp, still fresh.

Damon pawed at the lead hand, baiting. Desayen leapt in with a jab-cross, finishing with a step-off left hook that clipped Damon across the cheek.

Damon smiled now. Just a flash.

He returned with a flying knee attempt, Desayen ducked under it like he saw it coming.

They reset.

Thirty seconds left in the round.

Damon came forward, this time more aggressive. Low kick. Teep. Teep again. Left hook to the body, right hand upstairs.

Desayen answered with a head kick, caught on the glove.

Damon planted, fired a spinning back kick to the body. Caught Desayen off-balance. He stumbled slightly.

Ten seconds.

Desayen taunted with a shimmy. Damon didn't bite.

They both circled.

Horn.

Round one done. The crowd roared. No clear winner. Just flashes of genius from both sides.