MMA System: I Will Be Pound For Pound Goat-Chapter 522: Final Checks

Las Vegas.

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The crowd was already pouring into the arena, but Damon and his team had arrived hours earlier.

He was dressed down for now, sweatpants and a black UFA t-shirt, his fight gear already underneath. His hands weren't wrapped yet, but the air around him had already shifted. It was calm, but focused. You could feel the weight of the night ahead.

Damon sat on a bench in the warm-up room, legs slightly apart, leaning forward as he spoke with one of his corner team members, a guy named Marco.

Marco was older by a few years. A former fighter himself. He wasn't loud or flashy, just sharp. Reliable. The kind of teammate who did his homework, who spoke when it mattered, and who had earned Damon's respect over time.

They were reviewing the game plan, not from scratch, but the last-minute checks. Watching for Desayen's setups, his feints, his sneaky high kicks, the long reach he liked to use to bait counters.

"He likes to hide that question mark kick when he's on the back foot," Marco said, miming the motion in slow detail. "Don't chase him to the fence with a square stance, you'll eat it."

Damon nodded. He already knew most of it, but it helped to say it out loud. To hear someone else confirm what his instincts had been saying.

"Body shots early," Damon said, his tone flat, focused. "Slow him down, make him hesitant to spin."

Marco agreed. "Exactly. He hates pressure to the ribs. Just don't give him angles for that elbow inside. You know how fast he is with that."

It was a routine now, but one Damon valued. Every conversation like this helped ground him.

And with the fight just hours away, there wasn't room for anything less than full clarity.

Every step had to be sharp.

Every thought had to be clean.

And every second would count.

Not to mention, with every fight, Damon always made sure to enter the simulation through his system.

It had become part of his preparation, a vital one. No matter how much tape he watched, it was different when you could move in real time, feel the rhythm of a fighter, sense the range, pace, and reaction timing firsthand.

That was the edge.

It was easier to train for someone when you'd already gotten a feel of them, even if it wasn't real, even if it was a projection. It helped with awareness. Timing. Strategy.

He knew fighters evolved during camp. They made adjustments. They tweaked holes. But the core of who they were, their habits, their instincts, their fallback techniques under pressure, that didn't change much. Not in a few weeks.

And with Desayen, he didn't expect any different.

This was a retirement fight. Damon knew he'd be getting the best version of the veteran, but not an unfamiliar one. Desayen would come polished, dangerous, composed, and sharp. But not experimental. Not reckless.

So Damon had trained for the best of him.

And the simulation helped him prepare for exactly that.

As the show officially began and the early fights lit up the screen in the back rooms, Damon sat with his team, arms crossed, a calm focus on his face. He wasn't watching intently, just passing time, conserving energy. His mind was already in the cage.

He smiled to himself. The thought of the fight, the atmosphere, the lights, it all settled right in his chest like it belonged there.

Victor had worked his magic behind the scenes, and Damon had to admit: the man delivered.

The UFA had offered $1.5 million flat purse, plus a cut of the PPV points and performance bonuses depending on the outcome.

It was one of the highest purses ever offered to a non-title co-main event.

But it made sense. Damon was undefeated, ranked #2 in the world, the reigning World MMA Tournament Middleweight Champion, and the most talked-about name in the division.

The Desayen fight wasn't just another bout. It was a legacy fight.

One for the history books.

And Damon was ready to write his chapter.

Soon, Damon shifted his focus fully to the fights on the screen.

He watched closely. Some matchups were fun, fast-paced, technical, with good moments on the ground and sharp exchanges on the feet. One fight dragged more than expected, the kind that looked good on paper but never found its rhythm. Still, he wasn't surprised.

He'd predicted most of these outcomes in his head beforehand. It made him chuckle, if he were the betting type, tonight might've made him a fortune.

But he shook his head. Gambling was never his thing. His risks were taken inside the cage.

By the time the last fight before his was halfway through the second round, Damon stood up. The energy around him shifted.

He looked at one of his pad holders and gave a nod. No words needed.

They moved to the side of the room as the rest of the team stepped back to give him space. Damon rolled his shoulders, shook out his arms, and got into stance.

The sound of leather hitting leather echoed softly as the two started moving, tight jabs, kicks, pivots. Nothing wild. Just enough to feel sharp.

Locked in.

Calm.

Ready.

He didn't overdo it.

Just enough to break a light sweat, loosen the muscles, get the timing dialed in. When he was done, Damon made sure his wraps were tight, double-checked them himself out of habit, before sliding on his gloves.

His corner helped him tighten the straps. With that done, he walked back to the monitor.

But he didn't sit.

He just stood there, arms folded across his chest, focused, silent.

The final moments of the fight before his were playing out. He barely blinked. Not because he was invested in the match, but because the familiar rhythm of the cage was now calling.

He could feel it.

It was almost time.

The match on screen ended with a clean knockout, one of those perfectly timed shots that brought the crowd to their feet. A good fight. But now, all eyes in Damon's room shifted.

It was time.

The team moved without needing to be told. There was no scrambling, no rush, just a quiet intensity as they double-checked everything. In truth, they'd already prepared hours ago. Bags were packed, gloves ready, gear lined up.

Now it was all about small things.

Water bottles. Vaseline. Tape edges. Final glove checks. Mouthpiece in its case.

Marco gave Damon a light pat on the shoulder. Another checked the wrist wraps. His hoodie was zipped up.

Victor stood in the corner, arms crossed, watching it all come together.

Damon didn't say much.

He didn't need to.

His mind was where it needed to be, right in the middle of that cage, one step ahead, already visualizing every movement.

The real show was about to begin.