MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Two more months passed.

Wedding planning slowed. Svetlana shifted her focus to the final venue meetings and dress details, handling it all with quiet efficiency. Damon, on the other hand, had disappeared into full training camp.

He still believed Alex Tereira would be a manageable fight. But belief wasn't the same as disrespect. Tereira wasn't just any striker, he was one of the best.

Power in both hands, surgical timing, and the kind of calm that didn't crack under pressure. Damon knew better than to treat him lightly.

He trained as if the fight was tomorrow. Sparring, drills, endless rounds of chain wrestling, clinch work, and strikes off the break. The plan was clear, drag Tereira into the deep, suffocate his range, shut down his base, and break him mentally.

Still, a part of Damon wanted to stand. Not just to prove something, but because he could.

Damon had become a world-class striker in his own right. Not the traditional Muay Thai or boxing mold. His was forged in MMA chaos.

Elbows off level changes. Knees out of clinch breaks. Inside low kicks that disrupted rhythm and jabs that played tricks on timing.

But Tereira thrived in fire. So the smart move was to drag him down.

He knew that. Everyone knew that.

The difference was, Damon could take the fight anywhere.

And the closer the fight drew, the more the pressure simmered, not from fear, but from focus. Tereira was coming. And Damon Cross planned to end the debate before it started.

Soon, everything would begin to move at once.

The official weigh-in.

The pre-fight press conference.

The ceremonial face-off.

Being a double-title match meant the media demands were constant.

Every hour packed with interviews, promo shots, camera crews, and sit-downs with broadcasters.

Damon didn't love the media circus, but he knew how to handle it. More importantly, he knew this one mattered.

The fight would take place in Stockton.

That hit different.

He didn't talk about it much, but Stockton was where it all started for him.

He wasn't born there, but he became who he was in those streets.

Every fight, every close call, every time he walked alone because no one was coming to save him.

And now he'd walk back into Stockton to fight there not as some local kid, but as the middleweight champion.

And with a chance to leave as a two-division world champion.

He didn't care about symbolism, but even he couldn't ignore what this moment meant.

He'd walked out of Stockton years ago with nothing. Now he was walking back in with everything.

And still, a part of him wanted more.

Someday, he thought, he'd get an UFA card hosted in Ireland.

Maybe in Dublin. Maybe in Cork. Somewhere with history.

He could picture the flags, the chanting, the pride. That arena would be packed. Sold out in hours. And when it happened, he wanted to walk out as the undisputed double champion.

He wasn't a nationalist. Never had been. Damon didn't put much weight on flags or anthems.

He didn't care where a fighter was from, he cared how they fought, how they carried themselves, and how they showed up when it mattered. But he also wasn't blind to loyalty.

Ireland had supported him. Fully. Loudly. In every post, chant, and arena crowd. So he represented them because they had stood with him.

That was the kind of thing he respected. It wasn't about bloodlines or heritage, it was about how people showed up.

And while it had become a well-known fact that he was half Japanese, that part of him didn't carry the same warmth. Not because of the country.

But because of who his father was. Damon didn't feel any pride tied to that side of his lineage, not after what he and his mother had gone through.

If Japan had embraced him the way Ireland had, maybe things would've been different. But that never happened. And his father's shadow was too dark to ignore.

That was just how he thought.

To Damon, fighting was fighting. Whether he was standing for a country or just standing for himself, it didn't change how he trained or how he fought.

He didn't mind being a symbol for people who saw something in him, but it would never be performative.

He loved the fight, not the politics. And as long as he stayed true to that, he didn't care who stood behind him.

Damon cleared his throat and got back into position. Across from him, his teammate Javi stood tall, copying Alex

Tereira's style. He kept his hands loose, moved slow, and watched every little movement. Just like the real Tereira.

They circled. Javi threw a lazy jab, then stepped back. Damon didn't react. He stayed calm, hands up, waiting.

Javi threw a low kick, then followed with a left hook. Damon blocked both, then fired a quick straight left that landed clean.

Victor spoke from outside the cage. "That's what I'm talking about. You're not giving him anything."

Tereira was a counter striker. He waited for mistakes. Damon knew that. So he didn't give him those chances. He stayed smart, tight, and calm.

Javi tried another combo, push kick, then check hook. Damon stepped in, took the kick on his arm, then grabbed him. He forced him back to the cage.

Once there, Damon faked a takedown and came up with a fast elbow. It smacked into Javi's headgear.

Javi shook his head, grinning. "You're a problem, bro."

Damon just nodded. He was thinking about the real fight. Alex was great in open space. But Damon wouldn't give him space. He'd crowd him, cut him off, and make him feel trapped.

And when it felt safe? That's when he'd wrestle.

Damon looked at Victor, gave a short nod. "Again."

Javi raised his gloves. Damon stepped forward. He was ready.

Damon stepped back, wiping his face with a towel. He thought about how he usually prepared, mirror the opponent, break them at their own game. It worked. But this time, he wanted something different.

He wasn't going to just copy Tereira.

Tereira was a striker. A killer at range, patient, dangerous. Damon could match that if he wanted, but this time, he'd mix it up.

He'd strike with him to keep him honest, but the wrestling would still come. Not as a fallback. As part of the plan.

He looked at Victor. "I don't want him to think I'm just gonna shoot. I want to strike too. Let him feel confident. Then change it up."

Victor nodded slowly. "You sure?"

"Yeah," Damon said. "I'm not just a wrestler. I'm a fighter. I want him guessing."

Javi stepped back into the cage. "So… round three?"

Damon smirked. "Yeah. And now I'm me again."