MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Another punch came flying—a heavy left hook—but Damon's instincts kicked in. He slipped just enough, his back skimming the cage wall as he reset his balance.

His mind cleared fast.

But the damage was done.

He had been touched. Hard.

And everyone in the arena knew it.

Malikin smirked, his feet planting as he stalked forward, confidence in his every step.

For the first time in his career, Damon Cross was on the defensive before he could get started.

And now he had to dig deep.

Fast.

Absolutely. Let's dive back into the action. Damon recovers his composure and starts to fire back with intelligence, precision, and grit. We'll keep it within round one and give it the epic, high-stakes energy you're looking for.

Damon's feet found the canvas again, solid, steady. His jaw ached, but his head was clear. He tasted blood on his lip and knew it was his own. A reminder.

You're in a fight now.

No more feeling out. No more calculations.

It was time to answer back.

Malikin stalked forward, sensing weakness. His jab flicked out sharp, testing Damon's guard, and Damon deflected it with a tight parry.

He slid off the centerline, his feet shifting beneath him like water flowing downhill, calm but inevitable.

And then he struck.

Damon snapped out a vicious inside leg kick, chopping at Malikin's thigh, the crack of shin on muscle echoing. Without a beat missed, he fired a jab-cross combo straight up the pipe.

The jab missed.

The cross didn't.

It slammed into Malikin's nose, enough to halt his forward march.

Damon saw the flicker of irritation behind Malikin's eyes.

Good.

Make him think.

The commentators reacted fast.

"Damon Cross with a laser-straight right hand!"

"He's getting his rhythm back, look at that footwork!"

Malikin adjusted, lowering his stance. He feinted a takedown, and Damon didn't bite. He waited, poised. When Malikin tried to close the distance again, Damon met him with a teep to the midsection, stabbing his foot into the Russian's gut and halting his advance.

"Nice front kick from Cross," one of the commentators noted. "That'll slow Malikin down if he keeps landing those."

Malikin stepped back half a pace, brief, but enough.

Damon pressed.

He threw a tight, snapping elbow in close range, just missing as Malikin leaned back.

But it was a message: I'm still here.

And Malikin knew it.

Then came the moment.

Damon timed Malikin's next step in perfectly.

As the Russian moved forward, Damon pivoted hard off his back foot, twisting his hips into a brutal lead leg body kick.

It landed clean.

The thud of shin on ribs reverberated through the arena like a cannon blast.

Malikin grunted, he felt that.

Damon saw it.

"Cross goes to the body, big kick!"

"That's one way to drain the gas tank on Malikin. Those ribs are going to start adding up."

But Damon wasn't done.

He stepped in with a tight clinch, wrapping his left arm around the back of Malikin's head, pulling it down just enough.

His right hand fired an elbow over the top, a sharp, slicing strike that opened a small cut above Malikin's brow.

Blood trickled down immediately, thin but dangerous.

A target.

Malikin snarled, ripping free of the clinch and throwing a heavy overhand right.

Damon slipped just barely, the punch grazing past his ear.

He returned fire with a vicious knee up the middle that cracked into Malikin's ribs again, folding him slightly.

"Damon Cross is in the fight now!"

"This is a war in round one!"

The crowd was on its feet.

Irish flags waved, chants rising again.

Cross Era! Cross Era!

But Damon didn't hear it.

He was locked in.

Focused.

He circled out, keeping Malikin guessing.

Feinting low kicks.

Snapping his jab.

Eyes on the cut above Malikin's eye, watching the blood slowly smear across his opponent's cheekbone.

Malikin shot for a takedown, sudden and fast.

Damon sprawled hard, his hips heavy, stuffing it with brutal precision.

He wrapped Malikin's head and tried to snap him down, but Malikin powered up, pushing Damon toward the cage.

They clinched, both men digging for position, trading knees.

Damon's elbow shot over the top again, slicing into the same cut, making the blood flow more freely.

"Cross is targeting that cut now, smart, methodical," a commentator observed.

"He's not rushing anything. He's breaking Malikin down."

With ten seconds left in the round, Damon broke free, circled out, and set his feet.

He threw a sharp, snapping question mark kick, his shin just grazing the side of Malikin's head as the horn sounded.

The crowd erupted.

Both men returned to their corners breathing heavy.

But Damon's eyes never left Malikin.

Not for a second.

The first round continued at a relentless pace.

Both men traded in sharp, precise exchanges. Damon had found his rhythm after the early scare, and with each passing second, he pressed forward, closing distance, cutting angles, and applying constant pressure.

His kicks battered Malikin's legs and ribs, his elbows sliced in the clinch, and his jab found a home more than once, snapping Malikin's head back.

But Malikin wasn't breaking. He stood his ground, firing back with crisp counters and heavy shots of his own.vEvery time Damon surged, Malikin responded.

It was back and forth, high-level, technical violence.

Still, Damon was pushing the pace.

Controlling the center.

Dictating the fight.

As the final seconds of the round ticked away, Damon finished strong, backing Malikin toward the cage with a stinging combination: a sharp jab to the eye, followed by a crushing leg kick that thudded hard.

Malikin circled away just as the horn sounded.

The round was over.

The crowd roared.

But inside the cage, it was silent to Damon.

He exhaled as he turned back to his corner.

It wasn't fatigue, his conditioning was iron, built for wars like this, but there was a weight to this opponent.

Malikin was good.

Really good.

Especially on the feet.

But Damon felt something deep in his gut as he sat down on the stool.

I've got this.

A small, knowing smile tugged at the corner of his mouth as the cutman wiped the sweat and faint trace of blood from his face.

Victor was there in front of him, crouching low like he always did, his sharp gaze scanning Damon's face as he handed him a quick sip of water. Damon took it, swished it, spat into the bucket, his breathing already back under control.

Victor nodded, setting the water down.

"How do you feel?" he asked, his voice steady, measured.

"Good," Damon answered quietly, that small grin still there. "He's tough."

Victor smirked slightly. "You did great," he said. "But you need to do more."

His eyes sharpened as he leaned in closer.

"You need a knockdown or a submission. You hear me?"

Damon nodded.

"I hear you."

Victor pointed to the other side of the cage where Malikin was seated.

"Test his takedown defense next round," he said. "See how he handles it. You take him down, you make him uncomfortable. And when he gets back up, you hurt him again."

Damon sat forward on the stool, rolling his shoulders as the cutman finished applying a thin layer of Vaseline on his brow.

"I'll drag him out," Damon murmured.

Victor's smirk turned into a grin.

"That's what we do."

The horn for round two was coming.

Damon stood up before the stool was even pulled away.

Ready.