MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Damon woke up feeling rested.

He stretched once, rubbed his face, and walked barefoot to the kitchen. The house was quiet, only the soft creak of the floorboards under his steps.

He opened the fridge and grabbed a pack of eggs, sandwich bread, and a container of cooked bacon from last night. He set everything on the counter and got to work without much thought.

The pan warmed as he cracked three eggs into a bowl. He beat them lightly with a fork and poured them in once the oil shimmered.

While the eggs cooked, he dropped the bacon into another pan to reheat it and placed two slices of bread into the toaster.

He moved casually, flipping the eggs, stacking the bacon on a plate, and buttering the toast once it popped.

It wasn't anything fancy, but it smelled good, and it was enough.

Behind him, he heard footsteps.

He glanced over his shoulder and saw Svetlana dragging herself into the room with her hair still messy and her eyes half-shut.

He smiled and reached for the mug already set beside the machine. He poured her a coffee and slid it across the counter as she sat down.

"Thank you," she mumbled, already holding it with both hands.

He leaned in and kissed her cheek before turning back to the food. The eggs were ready, so he divided them onto two plates, added the bacon and toast, and brought them to the table.

Svetlana yawned once and took a bite of toast.

Damon sat down across from her and started eating.

They didn't speak for the first few minutes. It was the kind of quiet only familiar people shared.

After a while, he nodded toward the living room.

"I need to catch up on that World Tournament footage. Final's coming up."

Svetlana gave a tired nod and kept chewing.

Damon didn't mind the silence. He ate calmly, already planning his afternoon.

There was a fight on the horizon, and this time, it wasn't someone from UFA.

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.

.

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Damon sat on the couch in a loose shirt and sweats, his laptop connected to the big screen.

The living room was quiet except for the faint hum of the morning outside. A folder labeled WORLD TOURNAMENT FINALISTS blinked at him.

Joey had organized everything—fights, clips, breakdowns. Damon hadn't kept up with the tournament like he planned to. Life had been too full.

Now he was catching up.

He opened the file. Two names: Joren Edlen and Anatyr Tolkov.

He clicked Edlen first.

The Dellator logo flashed briefly before cutting to footage. Joren Edlen was undefeated and it showed. Damon watched him march forward in each fight like a man solving a problem.

With no excess movement, he cut the cage like a blueprint and put people on their backs with clean setups, not wild power.

He layered pressure—jabs, level changes, constant movement. Then he'd explode through with a takedown. Top control was tight. No scrambling. Once he got there, he didn't let people up.

Damon leaned forward slightly, arms on his knees.

"Guy doesn't waste time," he muttered to himself.

Footsteps approached from behind.

Svetlana walked in slowly, holding a glass of juice, her hair still damp from the shower. She was in one of his old shirts, socks mismatched.

She looked at the screen without asking and then flopped onto the couch beside him, tucking her legs under her.

Damon didn't say anything. He just pulled his arm around her waist automatically, still focused.

"You watching tournament guys?" she asked after a minute.

"Yeah," he nodded. "Finals haven't happened yet. Just trying to get a read before one of them shows up in front of me."

She leaned into his side and sipped her juice.

"This one's Joren," Damon added. "Undefeated. Dellator champ. Machine pace, all wrestling and pressure."

Svetlana watched a few exchanges. Edlen moved forward with a low stance, touched a jab, faked a shot, then drove a double-leg into the mat with zero wasted motion.

"He looks calm," she said. "Too calm, like he's never been punched in the face hard enough."

Damon smirked. "Yeah, that's what I'm wondering. He's clean, but I haven't seen him tested. He does everything right, but I wanna see what happens when it doesn't go to plan."

He clicked back and opened the second file.

Anatyr Tolkov. The N-2 National watermark sat in the top corner of the clip.

Where Edlen had rhythm, Tolkov had silence. He barely moved at all, standing upright in the center of the cage, tracking with his eyes but not reacting unless something came in range.

The first clip showed him absorbing three strikes, then slipping one and landing a short right. The man folded instantly.

Tolkov just walked to the center again and waited.

"Jesus," Svetlana muttered. "He didn't even flinch."

"Tolkov doesn't guess," Damon said. "He reacts late but accurate. He's not moving until you give him something."

Svetlana tilted her head, watching as Tolkov avoided a flurry with just three steps, then crushed a body kick into the ribs. His opponent dropped, and the ref stepped in without hesitation.

"He fights like a sniper," she added. "Doesn't move until he pulls the trigger."

They kept watching in silence as three more finishes played. Each time, Tolkov barely threw more than ten strikes per round. But every one of them counted.

Damon finally paused it and leaned back.

"Edlen drowns you. Tolkov shuts you off. Two different kinds of hell."

Svetlana looked at him.

"Who do you think will win?"

Damon answered her question without looking away from the screen.

"Well, these two have fought before," he said. "Joren won that one. Wrestled him to the ground and didn't let him breathe and it went to the judges."

He paused there, fingers lightly tapping the remote as he stared at the frozen frame of Tolkov on the screen. His expression didn't shift, but his eyes narrowed just slightly.

"But for this one…" He leaned back a little, the weight of the thought making him pause.

Svetlana glanced at him. She knew that look—he was actually thinking it through.