MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

The jab snapped Cellan's head back clean.

Damon stepped in immediately, smelling the moment. He feinted a low kick, causing Cellan's arms to twitch downward, and came over the top with a sharp right hand. It clipped Cellan high on the temple, forcing him back another step.

Cellan's footwork faltered slightly, but he reset, keeping his guard high. He fired back a desperate jab, trying to re-establish distance. Damon slipped outside and answered with a brutal low kick, slamming his shin into Cellan's already battered thigh.

The impact forced Cellan to switch stances again, limping subtly onto his rear leg.

Damon stalked without rushing.

He pawed with his lead hand, testing Cellan's reactions. Cellan threw a double jab, more out of survival than setup, and Damon rolled under it cleanly.

He shifted his weight forward, snapping another front kick into Cellan's midsection, knocking the air from his lungs.

Cellan grunted, hunching slightly forward. Damon faked another front kick, baiting Cellan to raise his hands, and immediately fired a tight hook to the ribs, folding Cellan even more.

The challenger fired back out of instinct—wide hooks, sloppy punches.

Damon stayed calm, slipping under the first, catching the second with his forearms, and answering with a clean one-two down the center. The right hand caught Cellan square on the mouthpiece, jolting his head backward.

Cellan stumbled toward the fence.

Damon cut off the cage with a small step to his right, never giving him a clean escape.

He fainted low again, dipping the shoulder. Cellan flinched hard this time, lowering his hands, and Damon came up with a brutal left hook that slammed against the side of Cellan's skull.

The crowd roared.

Cellan was still standing, but his feet weren't steady. His breathing was heavy now, mouth open, shoulders rising with each breath.

Damon stayed patient.

He jabbed at the body, keeping Cellan guessing, then faked high before snapping another vicious low kick across the tenderized thigh.

Cellan's knee buckled slightly, and he stumbled backward.

Damon pressed, fainting once more, causing Cellan to overcommit to a right hand.

Damon slipped inside it and unleashed a nasty combination, right hook to the body, left hook upstairs, right elbow over the top.

The elbow cracked through the guard. Blood sprayed from a fresh cut above Cellan's brow.

Still, Cellan threw back, digging deep, launching a wild overhand. Damon ducked under it smoothly and stepped back into range, tagging him with another piston jab that split the guard wide open.

Cellan reeled back toward the cage.

Damon didn't chase recklessly.

He feinted the shot again, forcing Cellan to react, then fired a heavy low kick that buckled Cellan's rear leg completely.

Cellan's back hit the fence, hands half-raised, breathing ragged.

Damon narrowed his eyes.

It was almost time.

And this time, he wasn't going to let him off the hook.

The crowd buzzed, feeling the tension tighten.

Damon stayed calm, stalking Cellan along the fence, feinting again with his hips, a slight drop of the shoulders.

On the broadcast, the commentators laughed lightly over the feed.

"I've lost count of how many times Damon's feinted already," one of them said, voice amused. "If you're keeping a counter at home, it's probably broken."

Another chuckled. "Yeah, you can see Cellan reacting to everything now. It's like Damon's pulling invisible strings. Move left? Feint. Duck down? Feint. Cellan's nervous about every twitch."

The lead voice cut in with a grin. "And the worst part? Every now and then, Damon actually goes when you think it's a fake. It's a nightmare."

Inside the cage, the pressure didn't slow.

Damon feinted another low kick, watching Cellan's weight shift, and immediately stepped in with a stiff jab to the cheekbone.

Cellan stumbled sideways again, off balance, forced to post against the cage with his right hand to keep standing.

Damon didn't let up.

He cut the angle neatly, forcing Cellan to turn awkwardly. As Cellan lifted his guard high to protect his head, Damon ripped a brutal hook to the liver, causing a full-body flinch.

Cellan grimaced, his mouthpiece flashing as he gasped for breath.

The commentators' tone shifted slightly, growing serious.

"That hurt him," one said quickly. "Body's starting to break down. You can see it."

Damon stayed patient, bouncing lightly, feinting again, not with wild swings, but with small, sharp shifts of his shoulders, just enough to keep Cellan twitching on every movement.

It was methodical, and it was cruel, but in the end, it was working.

Damon lowered his level again.

Cellan reacted—he flinched but stayed upright, expecting another feint.

Damon wasn't faking.

He shot in clean, wrapping his arms tight around Cellan's hips and driving him straight to the mat, causing an impact that shook the cage.

"Beautiful double leg!" one commentator barked.

Damon immediately passed to half guard, climbing up Cellan's body with heavy pressure.

Cellan didn't panic, instead he framed against Damon's shoulder, trying to create space and shift to the fence.

"Good defense by Cellan," another commentator said. "He's doing the right things—trying to wall walk."

Damon adjusted, as h posted up and dropped a heavy right hand, smashing into Cellan's guard.

Cellan covered well, moving his head, trying to block the shots with his forearms.

Damon didn't rush.

He shifted his weight again and trapped Cellan's right wrist to the mat, pinning it.

"Uh-oh," the lead commentator said. "Damon's setting traps now."

Cellan threw his hips to the side, trying to shrimp out and recover guard. Damon floated over effortlessly, reading it, stepping over and pinning the knee down.

Cellan fired a sharp elbow from the bottom, catching Damon's ribs.

"Good shot from Cellan there!" the second commentator said, surprised.

Damon absorbed it without flinching.

He postured high again and cracked Cellan with a stiff right hand.

Cellan moved with it, thinking he could roll and explode to his feet—but that's exactly what Damon was waiting for.

As Cellan tried to turn, Damon slid into a tighter position, pinning him chest-to-chest against the cage wall.

Cellan kicked off the fence with his foot, trying to explode upward, but Damon framed across his head and bombed a brutal left elbow straight down.

The shot landed flush.

Cellan slumped slightly.

The crowd roared.

Damon immediately capitalized, raining down another sharp right hand, then a left hammerfist to the temple.

The referee stepped in closer, hovering, shouting.

"Fight back! I need to see something!"

Cellan grabbed at Damon's wrist, trying to control the arm, but Damon ripped free and unleashed a clean barrage, short elbows, sharp punches—each one landing cleanly, forcing Cellan to shell up tighter.

Another vicious right hook smashed into the exposed jaw.

The referee rushed in, waving it off.

"AND IT IS OVER!" the lead commentator roared, voice nearly lost in the crowd.

Damon stood up immediately, calm and collected.

He looked down at Cellan for a brief second, nodded respectfully, then turned and walked toward his corner without a word.

The arena shook with noise.

The commentators spoke over the replay.

"Cellan was doing the right things—trying to scramble, trying to fight—but Damon Cross just reads everything," one said, almost amazed. "He's three steps ahead."

The replay showed it in full: Cellan scrambling, thinking he was safe, then Damon shifting angles and hammering him when he least expected it.

"This isn't just power," the second commentator said. "This is championship level dominance. Strategy. Precision. Ruthless when it's time to finish."

The camera caught Damon leaning casually against the cage wall, gold gloves hanging loose at his sides, breathing slow and steady.

Another defense and another name crossed off the list.

The division just kept looking smaller in front of him.