MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Step 2: Force Hesitation

Silva still had power, but power meant nothing if you were too scared to throw.

Damon started using false tells, faking his movement patterns. Find your next read at NovelBin.Côm

He would feint a low kick, but instead throw a high kick, just missing Silva’s guard.

He would fake a level change, making Silva brace for a takedown, then snap his head back with a sharp jab instead.

It was mental pressure at its finest. Silva was hesitating, not sure what was real and what wasn’t.

Damon used that moment of doubt to land a brutal spinning back kick to the ribs. The crowd gasped as Silva staggered slightly, clutching his side.

"Oh! That hurt him!"

Silva was slowing down, exactly as planned.

Step 2: Complete.

Step 3: Manipulate the Guard

Now that Silva was reacting to feints, it was time to exploit his natural instincts.

Damon faked another body shot, making Silva drop his elbows to defend, then immediately came over the top with a sharp right hook that crashed against Silva’s temple!

Silva stumbled.

The defense was breaking.

Damon pushed forward, forcing Silva against the cage, continuing to feint, watching how Silva reacted.

He noticed something. Every time Silva felt pressured, he tucked his chin and covered up tight.

Perfect.

Damon baited him into shelling up again, throwing a few hard shots to the body. Silva instinctively raised his hands, covering high—which left his midsection wide open.

Damon exploited it instantly.

He dipped low, launching a brutal knee straight into Silva’s liver!

Silva gasped, his body stiffening, his legs shaking.

"He’s breaking down! Damon Cross is completely dismantling him!"

Damon delivered a brutal uppercut to the liver, one of those ghost punches that weren’t seen but were definitely felt.

It landed flush, and the delayed reaction told the entire story.

Leandro "O Gigante" Silva’s body betrayed him, his knees buckling as he clung to the cage for support, his face contorted in pain.

The crowd collectively gasped as the giant went down to one knee, struggling to breathe, his arms still gripping the fence like it was the only thing keeping him from crumbling completely.

For a brief moment, Damon hesitated.

This should be it. The referee had to see this, Silva wasn’t defending, wasn’t moving, barely even reacting. It was over.

But the ref didn’t step in.

The commentators were equally stunned.

"Is the ref seriously not stopping this?" one of them questioned.

"This fight is done! Silva’s not defending himself, he’s barely holding himself up!" the other shouted.

Damon’s hesitation lasted only a second. If the ref wasn’t going to stop it, then he had a job to finish.

He didn’t wait for permission.

Damon stepped in and violated Silva, unleashing a ruthless barrage of precise, calculated shots.

A knee to the body, another to the head, hammerfists that forced Silva to collapse entirely.

The once-massive fighter was now curled up on the canvas, unable to do anything but take the punishment.

Only then did the referee finally jump in.

Too late.

The damage was already done.

Boos rained down from the crowd, not because Silva lost, but because of the delayed stoppage.

"That was a late stoppage if I’ve ever seen one!" one commentator exclaimed.

"That was hard to watch," the other agreed. "Silva was out of it long before the final shots landed."

Damon raised his hands, letting the moment sink in. A smile broke across his face, not one of arrogance, but of satisfaction.

This wasn’t his problem. The referee would take the heat for the late stoppage. Damon had done his job.

He had one responsibility in that cage, fight until the ref stopped it.

If he had pulled back, hesitated any longer, it would’ve been giving his opponent a chance to recover. That wasn’t how this worked.

But the energy in the arena was different. The boos rained down from the crowd, a mixture of outrage and frustration.

Some were directed at the ref for letting it go too long, others at Damon himself for the merciless finish.

Outside of the Irish fans and Damon’s loyal supporters, the reaction was hostile.

It didn’t matter.

A win was a win.

Damon glanced down at Silva, who was still struggling to regain his breath, his body trembling from the damage.

He had nothing against the guy, but this was the sport. It was brutal, unforgiving.

As the medical team rushed in to check on Silva, Damon turned away, walking toward his corner, toward Victor and the team.

The adrenaline was still coursing through him, but deep down, he already knew, this wasn’t the last time people would question his dominance.

If they didn’t like it, too bad.

As time passed, Silva slowly began to recover, though his breathing remained labored.

Liver shots were always dangerous, crippling in a way that even seasoned fighters couldn’t fully prepare for.

The damage lingered, and while he was conscious and stable, he wouldn’t be getting up anytime soon.

Meanwhile, in Damon’s corner, there was no concern, only celebration.

His team surrounded him, showering him with praise, their voices filled with excitement. Victor clapped him on the back, nodding in approval.

Even Tommy Hughes, despite all his past tension with Damon, had nothing negative to say.

Damon had done what he was supposed to do. Dominated.

The crowd was still buzzing, though the boos had died down. Some fans had come around, respecting the performance, while others remained upset over the referee’s delay.

But that didn’t matter now.

The announcer entered the cage. The medical team finished clearing out, carefully helping Silva to a stool in his corner as the final moment approached.

Damon stepped forward, his breathing steady, his expression unreadable.

The referee took his place in the center, reaching for the wrists of both fighters.

It was time to make it official.

The referee grabbed both fighters’ wrists, his grip firm, his expression unreadable as he prepared for the final call.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN… THE REFEREE HAS CALLED A STOP TO THIS CONTEST… AT THREE MINUTES AND FOURTY-SEVEN SECONDS OF THE VERY FIRST ROUND… DECLARING THE WINNER BY KNOCKOUT… AND STILL UNDEFEATED… DAAAAMON CROSS!!!"

The Irish crowd erupted, their chants drowning out the scattered boos from the opposition.

Damon raised his arms, letting the moment wash over him. A small, satisfied smirk crossed his face.

Another win.

Silva remained seated, still recovering, shaking his head in frustration.

His team did their best to console him, but there was no getting around the reality, he had been outclassed in every aspect.

Damon turned to Victor, exchanging a nod. Another step forward. Another name crossed off the list.

The tournament wasn’t over, but after a performance like this, one thing was clear.

Damon Cross was the fighter to beat.