MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Damon Cross was champion now.

Undisputed. Official. No debates.

His name wasn't just known, it was global.

But like every fighter who touched gold early, the hunger didn't fade. It sharpened.

Most fighters peaked between twenty-eight and thirty-three. That was the usual prime for MMA fighters. The body matured. The mind settled. Experience caught up to talent.

Damon didn't feel like he was entering his prime.

He felt like he was already there.

Twenty-two wins. No losses. Tournament champion. UFA middleweight champion.

It wasn't confidence anymore.

It was conviction.

He believed he was the best middleweight in the world. And there wasn't a record, performance, or name that said otherwise.

Nobody had touched him.

Nobody had made him bleed properly.

Nobody had slowed him down.

He didn't feel lucky.

He didn't feel blessed.

He felt right.

Every struggle he'd lived, the street fights, the nights without food, the family he protected, the childhood he survived, it all led here.

And it made sense.

This wasn't arrogance.

This was reality.

He didn't want rivals.

He didn't want debates.

He didn't want a 'dance partner' or a 'classic rivalry' like others built their names on.

Damon didn't care about that.

He wanted domination.

Legacy wasn't just about winning.

Legacy was about ruling alone.

He wanted to kill his generation. Bury it beneath his name. Leave nothing but space behind him.

No equals.

No rivals.

Nobody to share the table.

The throne belonged to him, and him alone.

And when he was gone?

He wanted that throne to stay empty.

No debates.

No successors.

Only his shadow.

Later that night, sitting on the couch in silence, his hands still wrapped and bruised, Damon scrolled through the headlines.

All of them screamed his name.

He stared at the screen for a while.

Then said it to himself.

Low. Final.

'I won't share this era with anyone.'

In a quiet apartment halfway across the world, a young man sat in a squat, elbows resting on his knees, sweat clinging to his shirt. His breathing was steady, but his eyes locked on the screen.

On it, Damon Cross raised the middleweight championship belt. The new king. The undefeated one.

The young man didn't blink.

The volume was down, but the image burned in his mind. Damon smiling. Crowd roaring. Belt wrapped tight. Legacy built step by step.

That man had what he wanted.

Every part of it.

The recognition. The silence in the room when his name was spoken. The belt. The power behind his record.

He respected him. No doubt. Damon earned everything.

But respect meant nothing in this moment.

He wanted to take it from him.

He wanted to stand at the top of this world, and right now, Damon was in the way. Damon had it all, and it was never given. He took it. He dominated for it.

That was what the young man admired.

And that was what he would aim to destroy.

This wasn't hate.

It wasn't bitterness.

It was hunger.

He didn't want a lucky punch. He didn't want a split decision.

He wanted a war, and he wanted to beat him so clean, so violently, that there would be no question.

He wanted people to say his name the way they now said Damon's.

He kept drilling in his living room. No coach. No cameras. Just reps and tape. Just sweat and breath and will.

He wouldn't stop.

Because the man on that screen had his dream.

And the only way to take it…

Was to rip it from his hands.

At the moment, Damon was king. The boss. The father of the division.

And that made him a target.

It didn't matter if someone was ranked number one or barely on the roster, Damon was in their crosshairs now. The belt meant power, but it also meant pressure.

The more title defenses he racked up, the more main events he headlined, the more dominance he showed, the more someone, somewhere, trained a little harder just to tear it away from him.

They could be a rising prospect or a seasoned veteran. Could be respectful or reckless. It didn't matter.

What mattered was the hunger.

Because if Damon kept this up, if he truly built a legacy, then beating him would mean more than gold. It would mean history.

Some would succeed. Most wouldn't.

Some would become rivals.

Others would become forgotten names.

And maybe one day, someone would do what no one else could, dethrone the undefeated titan.

But that was a question for the future. In this sport, nothing lasted forever. Everyone believed it: no one wins forever.

Not even kings.

And maybe Damon could change that.

Damon sat up and walked toward the title resting on the desk. His fingers ran across the gold plate, eyes locked on the reflection catching light from the window.

A small smile tugged at his mouth.

He was already planning out the new house, especially the shelf. A big one. Not just for this belt, but for the ones he'd collect. He wasn't done. Not even close. This was just the beginning. He'd stack them one after another, like a purple alien collecting magic stones.

He exhaled slowly.

"Is this what greatness feels like?" he muttered.

It didn't feel like enough.

There was no full satisfaction, no moment of peak. Just a whisper in the back of his mind, telling him it wasn't over. That he could do more. Be more.

Maybe that was a good thing.

Because the moment you felt full after one title?

You were already unfit to wear it.

Fighters fell when they lost their hunger.

Hunger was what made someone dangerous.

Damon leaned back against the wall, staring at the belt sitting under the glow of morning light. His mind wandered, to the fights, to the wars ahead, but mostly... to the system.

He never really admitted it openly, not to anyone, not even to himself out loud, but he owed everything to it.

Sure, he trained. Sure, he fought every fight. The pain was real. The grind was real.

But the truth was?

Without the system... maybe he wouldn't even be here. Or maybe it would've taken him ten years longer to even sniff this belt. If he ever did at all.

This thing was his quiet savior.

He chuckled quietly to himself, shaking his head.

"Winning the champion..." he muttered, eyes narrowing, "...wonder what crazy thing you're gonna give me now."

Because honestly? He couldn't even imagine what the system could reward him with at this point.

He had the gold. He had the fame.

What could possibly top that?