MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat

Damon arrived at the facility with his team.

His teammates were talking, and their excitement was contagious.

But Damon kept his mind on the fight and didn't pay attention to what was going on around him.

"Yo, what round do you think Damon's knocking Logan out?" one of the fighters said with a grin, nudging Ivan. "Man's already put him through a table once!"

The others laughed, nodding in agreement. "Second round, maybe? Logan's tough, but Damon's got this."

"He's gonna fold faster than a lawn chair," another chimed in, slapping Damon on the back with a wide grin.

Damon understood the hype. He appreciated the confidence they had in him, but he wasn't about to walk into the cage with the same mindset.

Every fighter in this competition was here because they could fight, and Logan wasn't an exception.

Damon knew better than to underestimate an opponent, no matter how much trash talk had been exchanged.

He kept his eyes forward, his mind running through the game plan Whittier had drilled into him over the past week.

As Team Whittier entered the room, they saw that Team Chemasov was already there, waiting.

The room was bright, with an octagon set up in the middle, and chairs arranged around it.

Coaches Donald Whittier and Balim Chemasov stood near their teams, quietly observing as the fighters entered.

The man in charge of the weigh-in stepped forward, holding a clipboard. "Alright, we're doing the weigh-in for Damon Cross and Logan Walker. Please step up."

Damon gave a quick nod to his teammates before walking forward.

His expression was calm, but his eyes were sharp, focused.

Logan stepped up as well, a smirk on his face, as if he couldn't wait to stir something up.

Damon didn't bother looking at Logan. He kept his gaze straight ahead.

Logan, however, took every chance to steal glances at Damon, his smirk only growing wider.

The official looked over at Damon. "Alright, step on up."

Damon gave a short nod, his expression steady as he reached down to pull off his shirt.

The room went silent for a brief moment as his toned, muscular frame came into view.

His body wasn't overly bulky, but the lean muscle was evident, each movement making his muscles shift under his skin.

His abs were starting to take shape, not fully defined yet, but enough to catch the eye.

His 6'2" frame, a combination of hard work and natural athleticism, looked every bit like a fighter's.

There were no tattoos, no ink to mark his skin, just a body built for combat, honed over the years in the gym and in the cage.

He had thought about getting a tattoo one day, maybe something meaningful, but for now, he was all business.

Damon stepped out of his pants, left standing only in his underwear as the official signaled for him to approach the scale.

His mind was sharp, focused, blocking out everything else.

He'd done this enough times not to be distracted, but as he glanced up, he caught a glimpse of Ronan Black standing near the coaches.

Ronan's sharp eyes were fixed on him, watching closely.

He thought for a split second about what the CEO was thinking, but he quickly pushed the thought out of his mind because he knew he had to focus.

Putting his feet on the scale, the cold metal barely felt like it hit them as he stood tall and flexed his muscles.

He stood with his back straight, letting the scale settle, feeling every set of eyes in the room on him.

He forced himself to relax by taking a deep breath.

The pressure of the expectations was heavy, but it wasn't enough to distract him.

The official glanced down at the numbers on the scale, giving a nod. "185 even!" he called out, loud enough for everyone to hear.

There was a moment of silence, then a few murmurs from the crowd.

It was a perfect weight for middleweight, showing that Damon had come in exactly on point.

He had prepared well, no last-minute struggles, no draining weight cuts.

Damon had put in the work, and it showed.

He stepped off the scale, his body still flexed, giving his muscles one last show before reaching for his clothes.

It was Logan's turn next. Without a word, he started peeling off his clothes, mirroring Damon's actions.

His body, though shorter at 5'11", was just as impressive, if not even more chiseled.

His muscles were tight, well-defined, and his confidence seemed to radiate from every inch of his frame.

Logan might have been shorter, but his body language screamed confidence. He was here to fight.

As he stepped up to the scale, there was a visible comparison between the two.

Where Damon towered, Logan looked compact, ready to spring into action at any moment.

He flexed his muscles, a cocky grin flashing across his face as he waited for the official to read the weight.

"185 even!" the official called, just as Logan had expected.

There were approving nods all around. Both fighters had hit the mark perfectly, showing they were serious about this match.

No one had cut corners. No one had taken shortcuts. It was all business now.

As Logan jumped off the scale, his cocky grin returning, he walked right up to Damon.

They stood chest to chest, neither willing to back down or break eye contact.

It was a silent standoff, both men sizing each other up.

Damon was the first to break the silence, his voice steady and taunting. "You're quiet. You nervous?" he said, smirking just enough to get under Logan's skin.

Cameras flashed, capturing the intensity of the moment as media and spectators leaned in, eager to see any spark ignite between them.

Logan's smirk faltered just a bit, but he quickly recovered. "We'll see," he replied, his voice low and almost venomous.

But before anything else could escalate, Ronan Black strode over, his presence immediately diffusing the growing tension. "Good job, boys," Ronan said, his voice commanding but calm.

"You made weight, you've done your part. Now go to the back, suit up, and get ready. We're here to put on a fucking show."

Both Damon and Logan nodded, though neither broke their stare.

Ronan clapped both of them on the shoulder, turning them toward the back.

They headed to the back, flanked by their respective coaches, along with the assistant coaches who had been working closely with them throughout training camp.

Donald Whittier and the rest of Team Whittier followed Damon, speaking quietly, offering last-minute pointers and encouragement.

On the other side, Logan walked with Balim Chemasov and his team, their tone more intense, less about pep talks and more about final instructions for the fight.

Meanwhile, the other fighters from both teams, along with a few officials and staff members, made their way to the chairs set up near the octagon.

They settled in, ready to watch the upcoming match.

These fighters weren't just there to spectate; they were taking mental notes, sizing up their competition, studying every move, every mistake.

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