MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Damon and Victor stepped into the room, the faint sound of their footsteps bouncing off the walls.

At the far end of a long table sat a woman, neatly dressed, with her dark hair pulled into a ponytail.

Her demeanor changed the moment her eyes landed on them, more specifically, on Damon.

Her smile widened instantly, lighting up her face. "Oh, are you here to sign up?" she asked, her tone a little too enthusiastic for a standard inquiry.

Damon nodded, his expression neutral but polite. "Yeah."

Her smile grew even wider, almost to the point of being infectious.

She practically radiated excitement as she grabbed a clipboard from the table.

Victor glanced at Damon with a raised eyebrow, his expression clearly saying, 'She definitely knows who you are.'

Damon, on the other hand, kept his cool, though inwardly he couldn't help but find her reaction a bit curious.

Either she recognized him from his fights, or her cheerful demeanor was simply how she greeted everyone.

He leaned slightly toward Victor. "Guess the Irish hospitality isn't a myth," he muttered under his breath.

Victor smirked but didn't reply.

The woman handed Damon the clipboard, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

"I just need you to fill out these forms and provide your identification, Mr. Cross."

She emphasized his name slightly, confirming Damon's suspicion, she definitely knew who he was.

"Thanks," Damon said, keeping his tone casual as he took the clipboard.

As he began filling out the forms, she continued to beam at him.

"It's such an honor to have someone of your caliber entering the tournament, and representing Ireland."

Damon offered a polite smile but didn't look up from the forms.

"Appreciate that."

Damon appreciated the growing fanbase, even in a country he hadn't lived in for years.

It was a good feeling, knowing his work was being recognized. Still, he wasn't naive.

He knew not everyone would be thrilled about him representing Ireland.

His lack of an Irish accent and years spent living elsewhere might ruffle feathers.

"Done," Damon said, handing the completed form back to the woman.

She smiled brightly, taking it from him. "Thanks. Let me take you to the arena. Before we get there, though, I'd like to give you a quick rundown of how the tournament will work after you qualify."

Damon raised an eyebrow, amused by her confidence. "You're speaking as if I've already qualified." Enjoy new chapters from empire

She chuckled, waving a hand dismissively. "Maybe not officially, but let's be honest. While there's a lot of talent here, the middleweight division isn't exactly stacked. There's only a handful of fighters, and I don't think any of them will beat you."

Damon smirked but didn't respond, his humility keeping him quiet despite her high praise.

She continued as they walked. "Now, about the structure. Once you qualify, you'll be placed on the National Team. While your personal team will still be with you, the National Team coaches and staff will be the primary ones working with you for international bouts. Your original team and the National Team will collaborate to ensure you're fully prepared."

Damon nodded, taking it all in.

He didn't have any issues with the arrangement.

Collaboration was fine, he trusted Victor and his team to handle any adjustments.

Besides, he rarely followed instructions during fights anyway.

Training? Sure. But in the heat of battle, he trusted his instincts above all else.

"Got it," he said simply, his tone even.

The woman smiled again, leading him down the hall toward the arena doors, her enthusiasm undeterred.

She pulled the door open, and the distinct sound of muffled chatter and shoes squeaking on the polished floor filled the air.

The sight of octagon cages scattered across the floor was the first thing to catch Damon's attention.

They looked out of place, starkly contrasting the traditional design of the boxing arena.

It was clear they had adapted the space for MMA, a sport growing rapidly in popularity but still finding its footing in some places.

Despite the mismatched look, the atmosphere was alive with energy.

A few fighters were shadowboxing near the cages, while others sparred lightly inside them.

Coaches shouted instructions, and the distinct thuds of gloves hitting pads echoed through the room.

The woman gestured toward the octagons with a proud smile. "We made it work. It might not look like much, but this is where the magic happens."

Victor chuckled beside Damon. "Magic, huh? We'll see about that."

Damon nodded, his eyes scanning the room.

While it wasn't as polished or professional as some of the facilities he'd trained in, there was something raw about it. Something authentic.

The woman continued, "You'll have time to get used to the space if you want to train a bit before the matchups are announced. Speaking of which, your opponent will be finalized by tomorrow morning. You'll be notified as soon as it's set."

Damon glanced at Victor, who nodded.

"Good," Damon said, his voice calm. "Gives us time to settle in."

As they stepped further into the room, a few fighters turned to look at Damon.

Some recognition flickered in their eyes, whispers breaking out among the small groups.

Damon ignored it, staying focused on the moment.

Victor leaned in, keeping his voice low. "You feel ready?"

Damon smirked faintly. "Always."

Damon watched as he approached the gathered group, the voices growing clearer.

Sure enough, it was the same voice he had heard earlier when walking into the building.

Collin NcGyver was in the octagon, lightly sparring with another fighter, his trademark charisma on full display.

"I'm tellin' ye, lad, yer footwork's all over the place," Collin said, his Irish accent sharp and lively.

He circled the fighter, his movements smooth and controlled, even in a playful spar. "Ye keep planting yer feet like that, and someone's gonna read ye like a book."

The younger fighter attempted a jab, which Collin slipped effortlessly, stepping to the side and giving a light tap to his opponent's shoulder. "See that? Ye're too stiff, lad. Relax! Fighting's as much about flow as it is about power."

Collin moved around the cage, nodding at the group watching outside. "Now, when ye're throwing that jab, don't just leave yer chin hanging out there like it's a gift for me birthday, eh? Keep it tucked in, shoulder up. Like this." He demonstrated, throwing a crisp jab, his form perfect.

The young fighter tried to mimic it, earning a quick nod of approval. "Better! But ye've still got the reflexes of a feckin' sloth. Speed it up!"

Collin danced forward, tapping the fighter's gloves before bouncing back. "Always be ready, lad. Always."