MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

And for the first time, Chemasov's eyes widened.

This wasn't just a striker who learned defense.

This was a grappler. A real one.

Damon dug his forehead into Chemasov's chin and controlled the far wrist.

Chemasov tried to buck. Damon floated with it. His base didn't move an inch.

Mike Brewer: "Look at this. Many did not expect Damon Cross to be out-wrestling Chemasov. But here we are."

Chris Dalton: "Damon's wrestling pedigree is underrated. And his jiu-jitsu is clean, clinical. He's been waiting to prove this against someone who is highly skilled on the ground."

Damon started to work for a crucifix, slowly trapping the far arm under his knee.

Chemasov rolled to defend.

Damon floated again, right to north-south.

No rush. No scramble. Just technical dominance.

Chemasov tightened his frame from bottom north-south, keeping his elbows tight and his core engaged. Damon tried to isolate an arm, but Chemasov didn't panic, he turned into the pressure just enough to block the setup, then bridged suddenly, creating just a pocket of space.

Damon adjusted, but Chemasov used that sliver to slide a knee under Damon's weight and recover half guard.

Damon dug for an underhook, trying to pass again. Chemasov kept a firm lockdown on Damon's leg and started to shift under him. He framed off Damon's chest, slid his hips out, and suddenly flared into a full sweep attempt. Damon rode the motion, but Chemasov came up to his knees.

It was a gritty scramble, power versus posture, leverage versus timing.

They spun once, twice, and Chemasov managed to hook behind Damon's knee and drag him down with a textbook mat return. The crowd popped.

Jim Logan: "There it is! The champ's still dangerous down here, don't count him out."

But Damon, even from bottom, didn't stop moving. He posted his left arm, built a frame with his right knee inside, and immediately started working for a butterfly elevation again. His hips stayed mobile. His head moved away from strikes.

Chemasov tried to settle in top half, but Damon used a knee shield, locked an overhook, and stalled any major posture. Then, he kicked out and nearly hit a technical stand-up.

Chemasov cut him off and stayed heavy on the back.

Now it was a grind.

Both fighters were clearly elite on the mat, every inch was fought for. Every grip mattered. Chemasov kept trying to flatten Damon, dragging his weight onto him, but Damon reversed a wrist grip, then turned hard into a Granby roll.

Suddenly, Damon was facing him again, forehead pressed into Chemasov's chest, back to the fence.

Damon shifted his grip the moment he got to his feet, forehead still pressed into Chemasov's chest, and spun around, snapping the champion down with a tight snap-down that dragged them both back to the mat. This time, Damon wasn't hunting for position.

He was hunting the finish.

In one seamless motion, he wrapped his arms under Chemasov's neck and dropped to the side, locking in a front headlock. His grip adjusted, forearm sliding under the throat, elbow framing high. Guillotine.

Mike Brewer: "He's going for it! Cross is going for the choke!"

Chris Dalton: "He's got the wrist in place. If he gets the angle—"

Damon shifted his hips, pulling guard, turning it into a high-elbow guillotine. Chemasov's legs kicked as he tried to posture out, but Damon clamped tighter, his grip locked.

The crowd surged to its feet.

Jim Logan: "CHEMASOV IS IN TROUBLE!"

Chemasov thrashed, trying to turn, to slip a shoulder, to fight the angle, but Damon stayed with him like a vise. His arms were flexed. Locked. And Chemasov's movement slowed—

And then—

BAAAAAAA!

The round ended.

Farc Goddarm stepped in immediately. Damon let go the second the bell rang, breathing steady, calm, like he hadn't just nearly choked out the reigning champion.

Chemasov sat back, chest rising and falling. He coughed once, blinked twice.

Damon stood.

And walked calmly to his corner.

Mike Brewer: "That was tight. A second longer, maybe even half, and we'd be looking at a new champ right now."

The break didn't take long, but it was enough.

Just enough for the atmosphere to shift.

Fans no longer looked at the fight as champion vs. contender.

They looked at it as something else now, Damon Cross vs. everyone's expectations. And he was dismantling them.

Even those who doubted him before were beginning to admit it: if this fight went to a decision, and somehow Damon lost, a rematch wouldn't just be fair, it would be necessary.

He had already earned it with that first round.

When the horn sounded for round two, the energy in the arena felt different. Louder, tighter, charged.

Damon didn't wait.

He stepped out of his corner and walked straight into Chemasov's range, not recklessly, but with controlled heat.

Chemasov barely had time to reset when Damon fired a sharp jab straight down the pipe. It landed. Clean. Snapped the head back. And Damon was already moving, already setting up the next one.

This was new.

He fired again, jab, cross, inside leg kick. Then angled out. He didn't load up. He didn't rush.

He just flowed.

And for the first time, Chemasov looked like he wasn't sure where the threat was coming from.

Sure the first half of the first round was the same but there Damon was more distant, Chemasov was the only one being aggressive, but right now he tried hard to understand.

Was it the hands?

The footwork?

The threat of the takedown?

Damon began stringing together his offense with calm precision. Every strike served a purpose, masking the real weapon: the invisible punch.

He flowed through a clean combo, jab, hook, then a subtle shoulder shift, and snap, the body shot landed again without clear wind-up. It was nearly impossible to see, but Chemasov's body flinched just a fraction, his elbow dropping to guard the ribs too late.

As he retreated, trying to circle out and reset his footing, Chemasov leaned to his right, a habit Damon had picked up from film. The moment he saw it, Damon fired a left high kick off the lead leg.

It wasn't a full shin connection, but the teep of his foot smacked across the jaw.

It wasn't clean enough to shut the lights out, but it was sharp enough to buckle the legs.

Chemasov dropped to a knee, catching himself with both hands, momentarily stunned.

The crowd erupted.

Damon didn't hesitate. He stormed in, lowered his level, and fired a knee to the ribs as Chemasov tried to post up. Another knee followed, this one glancing off the side.

Chemasov tried to stand, but Damon timed it perfectly, catching him as he rose and pressing him against the cage with heavy pressure, an underhook pinning one arm while his other hand fired short, digging knees to the thigh and body.

Chemasov was surviving, but he was getting beat to every position.

And Damon wasn't giving him space to breathe.